UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA    SAN  DIEGO 


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ERSITY  OF  CALHORNiA,  SAN  DIEGQi 
LA  JOLLA,  CALIFORNIA 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA.  SAN  OlEi.O 


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\  IC  li'.R. 


THE    FOUNTAIN. 


A    GIFT: 


"TO  STIR  UP  THE  PURE  MIND  BY  WAY  OF  REMEMBRANCE." 


INSCRIPTION    FOR  A   WAY-SIDE   FOUNTAIN. 

Drink,  weary  Pilgrim,  if  athirst  thou  be, 
Know  that  the  stream  is  gushing  forth  for  thee ! 
Drink,  in  Christ's  name, — life's  painful  way  who  trod, — 
Man  gives  the  cup— the  Living  Water,  God Bethukb. 


EDPTED  BY 

H.  HASTINGS  WELD, 


PHILADELPHIA : 

WILLIAM    SLOANAKER, 

1847. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846,  by 

WILLIAM  SLOANAKER, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District 
of  Pennsylvania. 


Printed  by 
T.  K.  &  P.  G.  COLLINS. 

Stereotyped  by 

S.  DOUGLAS  WYETH, 

No.  7  Pear  St.  Fbiladelphia. 

D.  W.  GIHON, 
Binder,  No.  98  Chestnut  St 


CONTENTS 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  WAYSIDE  FOUNTAIN.  G.  W.  BETHUNE,  D.  D.  lille. 

MOSES  IN  MIDIAN.      (ILLUSTRATED.)  LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY.  7 

THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPTED.  ANN  S.  STEPHENS.  9 

GIVE  ME  MY  HUSBAND.     (ILLUSTRATED.)  T.  S.  ARTHUR.  33 

TO  THE  SONS  OF  TEMPERANCE.  FANNY  FORRESTER.  52 

AGNES.  CAROLINE  M.  KIRKLAND.  54 

THE  WATERS  OP  MERIBAH.  (ILLUSTRATED.)  THE  EDITOR.  79 

FAMILY  INTERFERENCE.  F.  E.  F.  81 

THE  WATER  BEARER.  LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY.  104 

SABBATH  MORNING.  ROBERT  L.  WADE.  106 

THE  mother's  trial.  SEBA  SMITH.  107 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TEMPERANCE.  CATHERINE  H.  ESLING.  116 

LE  PORTE-BOUaUET.      (ILLUSTRATED.)  FRANCES  S.  OSGOOD.  119 

QUAFFING.  THOMAS  G.  SPEAR.  126 

THE  FUNERAL — A  CITY  SKETCH.  JULIAN  CRAMER.  128 

INTEMPERANCE — A  SIMILE.  MARIE  ROSEAU.  13b 

iii 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


OUR  ELSIE. 

THE  SONG  OF   THE    FREE. 

THE  REFORMER. 

JACK  ALLOWAY.      (ILLUSTRATED.) 

TO  YOUNG  SPIRITS. 

THE  MURDERED  CZAR. 

THE  INEBRIATE  HUSBAND. 

PAUL  BEFORE  FELIX. 

LAMENTATIONS  III.  33, 

MINT  AND  EDUCATION. 

TEMPERANCE  BANNER.      (ILLUSTRATED.) 

RETALIATION. 

A  HYMN  OF  TIME. 


P^ 

ALICE  G.  LEE. 

135 

S.  D.  PATTERSON. 

148 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

149 

THE  EDITOR. 

153 

J.  BAYARD  TAYLOR. 

162 

W.  H.  C.  HOSMER. 

165 

MARIE  ROSEAU, 

169 

CATHERINE  H.  ESLING. 

179 

REV.  \V.  S.  DRYSDALE. 

181 

HORACE  GREELEY. 

182 

THE  EDITOR. 

191 

MRS.  HUGHES. 

193 

THOMAS  G.  SPEAR. 

250 

LIST  OF  EMBELLISHMENTS. 

ENGRAVED   BY   SARTAIN. 

MOSES  IN  MIDIAN.  -  -  -  -  FRONTISPIECE. 

THE  FOUNTAIN.  .  -  -  -  VIGNETTE  TITLE, 

THE  widow's  appeal.  ------      33 

MOSES  SMITING  THE  ROCK.    ------        79 

119 

153 


MARGARET. 
DOMESTIC  HAPPINESS 
PAUL  BEFORE  FELIX. 
VISITING  THE  SICK. 


179 
191 


THE    FOUNTAIN. 


MOSES  IN  MIDIAN. 

BY   MRS.   L.   H.   SIGOURNEY. 

Why  art  thou  here,  amid  the  streams  and  flocks 
Oh  foster-son  of  Egypt, — rear'd  in  all 
The  luxury  of  courts  ? — Was  there  no  nerve 
Of  strong  ambition  in  thy  secret  soul 
Twining  bright  visions  round  a  future  throne  ? 
Didst  never  think  't  were  sweet  to  be  a  king  ? 
Or  that  her  hand  who  drew  thee  from  the  Nile, 
FilPd  with  compassion  for  the  babe  that  wept, 
Might  to  its  other  bounties,  add — a  crown  ? 

Yet  well  thou  seem'st  content  with  rural  charms, 
Nor  wears  thy  brow  a  trace  of  hope  deferr'd, 
Or  rootless  expectation.     Thy  young  heart's 
Requited  love, — and  the  free  intercourse 
With  Nature,  in  her  beauty  and  repose, 
Give  thee  full  solace. 

And  when  twilight  grey 
Lureth  thy  lambs  afold,  or  twinkling  stars 
Look  from  their  chambers  on  the  chrystal  founts 
With  tender  eye,  perchance,  thy  hand  doth  sweep 
The  solitary  lyre,  weaving  in  hues 
Of  sable,  and  of  gold,  his  wondrous  fate 

7 


THE     FOUNTAIN. 

Who  drank  so  deep  of  sorrow  and  of  joy, 

The  man  of  Uz.     For  Poesy  doth  dwell 

With  pastoral  musing,  and  the  pure  response 

Of  birds  and  brooks.     And  he,  who  feeleth  that 

Eolian  thrill  within  him,  hath  no  need 

Of  Fame's  shrill  trump,  and  shrinketh  from  the  gong 

Of  the  great,  pompous  world. 

Spake  not  the  voice 
Of  Midian's  gushing  waters  to  thine  ear, 
Prelusive  of  the  honours  and  the  toils 
Decreed  for  thee  ?     Came  there  no  darken'd  dream 
Of  desert  wanderings  ? — of  a  manna-fed 
And  murmuring  host  ? — of  thine  own  burden'd  lot 
Bearing  alone,  the  cumbrance  and  the  strife 
Of  mutinous  spirits,  when  the  wrath  of  Heaven 
Burn'd  fierce  among  them,  and  avenging  Earth 
Opening  her  mouth,  prepar'd  their  living  tomb  ? 

Ah  !  linger  still,  amid  the  quiet  groves, 

And  to  green  pastures  fed  by  sparkling  rills, 

Lead  on,  with  gentle  crook,  thy  docile  sheep 

While  yet  thou  may'st.     With  holy  Nature  make 

Close  fellowship,  and  list  the  still,  small  voice 

Of  Inspiration,  stealing  o'er  thy  soul 

In  lonely  thought : — so  shall  it  gather  strength 

To  do  the  bidding  of  Omnipotence, 

And  walk  on  Sinai,  face  to  face,  with  God. 

HARTFORD,   JUNE    1846. 


THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPTED. 

BY   ANN  S.   STEPHENS. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"  The  lovers  lingered  by  the  shore, 
Yet  neither  dared  to  break  the  spell : 

To  part — perhaps  to  meet  no  more  ! 
"What  lip  could  utter  first  'farewell?'  " 

"Farewell  !" 

Ah !  when  was  that  Uttle  word  uttered  to  a  loving  heart, 
without  causing  a  thrill  of  pain.  How  many  pulses  has  it 
checked  in  their  hurried  beat.  How  many  eyes  has  it  del- 
uged with  tears — How  often  has  it  quenched  the  last  hope 
of  a  clinging  soul !  that  little  word  "  farewell  ?" 

Never  since  the  language  was  created,  did  those  seven 
mournfully  arranged  letters  fall  upon  a  heart  that  trembled 
more  painfully  with  a  dread  of  their  coming,  than  on  the 
night  our  story  commences. 

The  young  girl  who  heard  it  stood  pale  and  still  in  the 
moonlight,  her  downcast  eyes  full  of  tears — and  a  tremor 
now  and  then  stirring  her  lips,  while  the  full  breath  came 
sobbing  through. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  pleaded,  "  Oh  surely  not  yet,  the  moon 
is  but  just  risen — you  shall  not  say  farewell  till  its  full  light 
is  upon  the  water !" 

"  Heaven  knows  I  would  delay  the  parting  till  the  last 
moment  Ellen,"  was  the  reply,  "  but  we  start  for  Portland 

9 


10  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

at  daylight ;  it  is  now  ten  o'clock,  and  I  have  some  miles 
to  ride  !" 

"  I  know  !  I  know  !"  cried  the  young  girl  eagerly,  "  but 
a  few  minutes,  only  a  few  minutes  longer ;  remember  how 
long  it  will  be  before  we  stand  here  again  I" 

"  I  know  this — and  feel  it  too,  more  deeply  than  you  may 
suppose  Ellen — ^but  remember  when  we  do  meet  it  will  be 
forever — successful  or  not,  I  shall  claim  my  wife  within  one 
week  of  my  return." 

"  I  shall  be  ready,"  was  the  low  and  sweet  toned  reply. 
"  God  keep  you  till  then." 

The  tears  were  checked  in  her  hazle  eyes  and  the  moon- 
light fell  upon  her  beautiful  face  ;  it  was  eloquent  with  holy 
tenderness,  the  heart  of  that  pure  young  creature  was  so 
full  of  the  grief  of  a  parting  hour,  that  her  very  limbs  be- 
gan to  tremble,  and  she  clung  to  the  arm  of  her  promised 
husband  in  silence,  though  a  thousand  fond  and  regretful 
words  made  her  bosom  heave  and  her  lip  tremble. 

"  I  will  walk  home  with  you,  at  least  to  the  gate,"  said 
young  Franklin,  to  whom  the  protracted  parting  had  be- 
come exceedingly  painful.  "  Lean  more  on  me  Ellen,  all 
this  effects  you  so  much  more  than  I  anticipated,  try  to  call 
up  a  little  more  strength,  or  I  shall  never  find  courage  to 
start." 

"  I  am  strong  now,"  said  Ellen  in  a  low  voice,  lifting  her 
eyes  with  a  look  of  troubled  affection  to  the  manly  face 
bent  over  her  with  such  solicitude. 

"  Let  us  sit  down  for  five  minutes,  and  then  I  will  not 
attempt  to  keep  you  longer.  I  know  that  it  is  very  fool- 
ish," she  added  as  Franklin  placed  himself  on  a  fragment 
of  rock  by  her  side,  "  but  my  heart  grows  faint  as  the  min- 
utes go  on.     What  if  you  should  die  at  the  south  ?" 

"The  chances  of  death  are  in  every  place!"  replied 
Franklin. 

"  Or  what,"  continued  the  young  girlbending  her  mourn 


THE   TEMPTER  AND   THE  TEMPTED.     11 

ful  eyes  on  the  waters  that  sparkled  beneath  their  feet, 
"  what  if  you  forget  to  love  me  there  ?" 

"That  is  impossible,  Ellen,  you  are  already  the  better 
part  of  myself,''  replied  the  youth  with  fervour,  "  I  should 
as  soon  forget  the  pulses  of  my  own  heart !" 

"  I  believe  it,"  replied  Ellen  in  a  voice  that  was  still  sad 
in  its  tones,  though  she  struggled  to  speak  cheerfully.  "  Yet 
it  is  strange  that  I  cannot  conquer  this  painful  foreboding. 
It  seems  as  if  some  great  evil  were  to  follow  this  southern 
tour." 

"  No  evil  save  death  shall  be  allowed  to  reach  you  dear- 
est," was  the  affectionate  reply;  but  the  moment  of  sepa- 
ration was  close  at  hand,  and  they  both  sat  in  the  moon- 
light silent  and  with  their  hands  interlinked :  it  seemed  as 
if  a  word  would  hasten  the  dreaded  moment. 

"  Come  I  must  go,"  exclaimed  Franklin  at  last  starting 
to  his  feet ;  Ellen  looked  up,  arose  with  a  depressed  air,  and 
placed  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  "  You  will  go  with  me 
through  the  orchard,"  she  said  in  a  voice  choked  by  a  sud- 
den rush  of  tears. 

"  Yes !  Yes !"  was  the  low  reply,  and  they  walked  on 
together.  At  another  time  the  young  pair  would  not  have 
left  the  beautiful  banks  of  that  lake  without  some  manifes- 
tations of  regret  at  parting  with  a  scene  so  replete  with 
loveliness ;  but  now  it  was  only  thought  of  as  associated 
with  the  history  of  two  hearts,  that  had  been  united  almost 
as  naturally  as  the  wild  roses  entangled  upon  its  banks. 
Every  spot  was  rife  with  the  memory  of  some  gentle  word, 
some  new  sensation.  They  had  played  at  hide  and  seek 
among  the  alder  bushes  a  thousand  times,  when  school 
children  together;  they  had  made  dandelion  curls,  and 
larkspur  chains  on  the  fall  of  green  sward  that  sloped  down 
from  the  orchard  to  the  water  edge,  while  in  their  sweet 
childhood,  as  innocent  and  happy  as  the  birds  that  filled  the 
orchard  with  music,  and  now  on  the  very  spot  where  their 
childish  intimacy  had  ripened  into  love  imperceptibly,  as 


12  THEFOUNTAIN. 

the  blossom  changes  to  fruit— they  were  about  to  part.  It 
might  be' for  months.  It  might  be  forever.  Was  it  strange 
then  that  soul-absorbed,  and  full  of  grief,  they  should  shrink 
from  looking  back  upon  the  beautiful  water  scene  that,  as 
the  birth-place  of  their  loves,  had  become  familiar  and  dear 
as  paradise  was  to  our  first  parents .'' 

Still  the  lake  robed  in  its  night  beauty  was  an  object  to 
win  the  admiration  of  any  being  not  wholly  pre-occupied 
by  painful  thoughts.  It  lay  among  the  picturesque  and 
deeply  verdant  hills  of  Maine,  like  a  lost  crystal  around 
which  a  wilderness  of  verdure  had  tangled  itself  A  veil 
of  silvery  mist  shot  through  and  through  with  moonbeams 
hung  over  it,  and  all  around  its  edges  black  alders,  dog- 
wood trees,  and  the  wild  cherry  were  chained  together  with 
ivy,  clematis,  and  other  creeping  vines,  mostly  in  flower, 
and  so  matted  and  woven  together,  that  the  lake  seemed 
wreathed  with  one  enormous  garland.  Here  and  there  a 
grassy  slope  cut  through  the  blossoming  thickets,  and 
dropped  greenly  to  the  waters,  while  a  clump  of  trees  stood 
upon  a  little  promontory  opposite  the  orchard  with  a  host 
of  lusty  vines  clinging  around  them,  and  casting  a  graceful 
shadow  half  across  the  water. 

Still,  as  I  have  said,  all  this  world  of  beauty  failed  to  win 
a  single  look  from  the  young  couple  that  had  just  turned 
from  it,  in  the  heavy-heartedness  of  a  last  adieu.  They 
walked  on  through  the  orchard  very  slowly,  and  feeling 
that  every  footstep  drew  them  nearer  to  the  parting  mo- 
ment. The  orchard  was  bending  under  a  cloud  of  rosy 
blossoms,  and  the  air  that  swept  through  was  heavy  with 
fragrance  ;  but  all  this  fell  upon  Ellen's  heart  like  a  mock- 
ery :  the  balm  floating  on  the  wind,  made  her  faint  with 
regret ;  if  every  thing  around  had  not  been  so  beautiful 
she  might  have  suffered  less ;  but  every  object  was  con- 
nected with  her  lover,  and  as  the  links  that  bound  her  to 
him  were  torn  apart,  they  seemed  to  sweep  the  bloom 
from  every  thing  associated  with  his  memory.     A  sloping 


THE   TEMPTER  AND   THE   TEMPTED.    13 

meadow,  where  fragrant  white  clover  lay  thick  and  heavy, 
hke  a  harvest  of  pearls  in  the  grass,  divided  the  orchard 
from  one  of  those  old-fashioned  tree  embowered  farm- 
houses that  in  New  England  are  always  a  picturesque  fea- 
ture in  almost  every  landscape.  When  the  young  couple 
reached  the  stone  wall  which  divided  the  clover  lot  from 
the  orchard,  they  paused  once  more,  and  Franklin  wrung 
the  little  hand  that  clasped  his. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  he  said,  "  it  is  late,  and  young  Brown- 
son  is  at  the  tavern,  expecting  me." 
Ellen  started,  and  turned  a  shade  paler. 
"  Young  Brownson  !"  she   said,  "  I — I  thought  that  he 
had  gone  south  weeks  ago." 

"  No  he  heard  of  my  intention  to  go  while  in  Boston, 
and  came  back  that  we  might  travel  together.  I  thought 
that  you  had  seen  him." 

"  No,"  replied  Ellen,  and  her  voice  faltered ;  for  a  new 
and  overpowering  foreboding  of  evil  came  over  her,  "  I 
have  not  seen  him,"  She  paused,  looked  hurriedly  around 
and  then  holding  Franklin's  hand  between  both  hers  look- 
ed earnestly  in  his  face,  while  the  breath  came  unequally 
through  her  parted  lips.  Franklin  mistook  this  emotion ; 
he  thought  that  her  anxious  and  troubled  look  arose  from 
a  feeling  that  the  parting  moment  was  upon  them;  the 
strong  control  with  which  he  had  curbed  his  own  feelings, 
was  fast  yielding  to  a  sight  of  her  increasing  anguish,  and 
without  waiting  for  the  words  that  trembled  on  her  lips,  he 
flung  his  arms  around  her,  strained  her  for  a  single  moment 
to  his  bosom,  and  with  a  half  smothered  "  God  bless  you 
belov^ed,"  sprang  over  the  wall,  and  was  out  of  sight,  be- 
fore the  glow  of  his  farewell  kiss  had  faded  from  her  fore- 
head. "  Oh  heavens  !  he  is  gone  ;  and  it  is  too  late,"  sob- 
bed the  poor  girl,  clasping  her  hands  and  sinking  to  a  frag- 
ment of  stone  that  had  cast  from  the  wall.  "  Franklin ! 
Franklin !"  she  started  up,  and  her  fliint  cry  sounded 

2 


14  THE      rOUNTAIPf. 

plaintively  on  the  still  air,  for  emotion  deprived  her  voice 
of  its  usual  power.  But  though  faint  and  mournful,  it 
seemed  to  have  reached  the  ear  of  her  lover ;  a  rapid  step 
coming  along  the  foot-path,  down  which  he  had  gone,  fell 
upon  her  ear :  the  shadow  of  a  man  gliding  over  the  turf 
met  her  tearful  gaze,  and  clasping  her  hands  with  a  sob  of 
joy,  she  sat  down  again,  striving  to  compose  her  thoughts, 
that  her  confession  might  be  made  in  as  brief  words  as  pos- 
sible. 

She  was  scarcely  seated,  when,  with  a  single  leap,  the 
person  whom  she  had  seen  approaching,  sprang  over  the 
wall,  and  stood  by  her  side. 

"  Miss  Fleming." 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  Ellen  started  to  her  feet  as  if 
a  serpent  had  stung  her ;  a  look  of  affright  broke  through 
her  eyes,  and  she  shrunk  back  against  the  wall.  A  young 
man,  some  three  or  four  and  twenty,  stood  before  her,  with 
his  hand  extended  as  if  he  expected  that  she  would  take  it, 
and  even  in  the  moonlight  she  could  see  that  a  derisive 
smile  hung  upon  his  lips. 

"  You  seem  surprised  at  seeing  me  here  Miss  Ellen,"  he 
said,  allowing  the  hand  she  had  refused,  to  drop  quietly  by 
his  side. 

"  I  thought — I  hoped  you  had  left  the  neighbourhood," 
was  the  faint  reply. 

"  What  ?  without  saying  farewell — You  do  me  injustice 
— I  could  not  have  been  so  neglectful ;"  there  was  a  covert 
sneer  in  his  voice,  and  he  glanced  at  the  shrinking  girl, 
from  under  his  half  closed  lashes  with  a  look  of  sinister  en- 
joyment. She  drew  back  with  a  thrill  of  disgust,  and  cast 
an  imploring  look  around  as  if  still  hopeful  that  Franklin 
might  be  within  hearing. 

"  I  am  fortunate  in  meeting  you  alone,  and  in  this  retired 
place,"  said  the  young  man,  drawing  closer  to  her  and 
speaking  impetuously,  though  in  a  subdued  voice,  "  I  have 
little  time,  but  enough,  to  ask  if  you  are  still  obdurate 


THE   TEMPTER  AND  THE   TEMPTED.    15 

against  me ;  if  no  afterthought  has  softened  your   heart 
toward  one  who  has  loved  you  so  devotedly." 

"  Mr.  Brownson  why  will  you  intrude  the  subject  on  me 
agahi  ?"  cried  Ellen,  raishig  a  portion  of  her  natural  dignity. 
"  I  have  told  you  how  impossible  it  is  for  me  to  think  of 
you  as  a  husband.     I  have  given  you  a  sufficient  reason." 

"No!  not  sufficient,  because  not  the  true  reason,"  re- 
plied the  young  man,  more  bitterly  than  he  had  yet  spoken. 
"  That  you  have  seen  me,  or  rather  heard  of  me  overcome 
by  wine,  once  or  twice,  is  no  reason  that  men  would  not 
laugh  at." 

"  Have  I  not  said  that  I  cannot  love  you,"  cried  Ellen, 
striving  to  force  away  the  hand  he  had  taken,  in  spite  of 
her  resistance. 

"  Yes  !  that  you  cannot  love  me,  because  I  am  a  drunk- 
ard— a  drunkard  when?" 

"  I  said  that  I  could  not  love  you,"  replied  Ellen,  with  dig- 
nity ;  though  her  voice  trembled :  "  not  because  you  were  in- 
temperate— had  it  been  otherwise,  all  hopes  of  affection 
from  me  would  have  been  the  same.  Still  though  I  had 
loved  you  better  than  my  own  life,  this  one  habit  would 
have  decided  my  heart  against  you." 

"  So  you  would  have  me  think  that  indulgence  in  a  glass 
of  wine,  now  and  then,  has  lost  me  all  chance  of  this  pretty 
hand,"  said  Brownson,  half  mockingly ;  lifting  the  strug- 
gling hand  forcibly  to  his  lips.  "  Now  if  the  night  had 
been  less  still — and  the  shadow  of  the  wall  not  quite  so 
convenient,  I  might  have  believed  this;  but  after  seeing 
you  in  Franklin's  arms,  with  his  lips  upon  your  forehead, 
after  ten  o'clock  at  night — " 

"  That  you  have  seen  me  taking  leave  of  my  future  hus- 
band, the  man  to  whom  I  have  been  engaged  during  the 
last  three  months,  i^  a  fact  for  which  you  lhe»>unwelcome 
intruder  should  blush.  I  can  only  feel  indignant,"  ex- 
claimed Ellen,  interrupting  him  with  modest  firmness. 

"This  scornful  expression  is  piquant  and  becoming," 


16  THEFOUNTAIN. 

was  the  quiet  reply.  "  But  listen  to  me  Miss  Fleming — 
nay  do  not  struggle,  I  will  be  heard ;  have  no  fear,  I  am 
not  about  to  offer  unwelcome  love  to  you  again:  but  I 
could  not  leave  this  part  of  the  country,  without  thanking 
you  for  the  pleasure  your  society  has  afforded  me  ;  both  in 
love  and  hate  you  have  been  an  object  of  great  interest  to 
me." 

"  In  hate,"  repeated  Ellen,  shrinking  from  the  burning 
glance  which  made  her  shudder  though  subdued  by  the 
soft  moonlight.  "  What  have  I  done  to  merit  so  wicked  a 
feeling  ?" 

"  You  have  rejected  my  love ;  you  have  scorned  my 
habits — is  not  that  enough  ?" 

"  I  have  pitied  your  habits,  not  scorned  them." 

"  I  asked  for  love,  and  you  gave  me  pity ;  in  return  I 
rendered  hate,  that  shall  reach  you  years  and  years  from 
now  !" 

There  is  no  describing  the  malignant  and  bitter  express- 
ion that  swept  over  Brownson's  face  ;  as  he  spoke,  his  dark 
eyes  gleamed,  and  specks  of  foam  flew  to  his  lips.  "  You 
refused  me,  because  I  sometimes  drain  a  glass  with  my 
friends.  Look  on  me  Ellen  Fleming,  you  will  yet  sleep  in 
the  bosom  of  a  drunkard  !" 

"  Never  !  never  !"  cried  the  young  girl,  affrighted  by  his 
fiendish  look,  and  more  fiendish  prophecy ;  and  with  sud- 
den strength,  she  wrenched  her  hand  from  his  grasp. 
«  Leave  me,  sir,  it  is  late ;  and  I  must  go  home." 

"  I  will  leave  you,"  now  cried  the  young  man,  seizing 
her  hand,  and  wringing  it  hard.  "  When  we  meet  again, 
you  will  remember  the  words  I  have  spoken  this  night." 

"  Would  to  Heaven  I  could  forget  them,"  cried  the  poor 
girl,  as  she  fell  shuddering  against  the  rough  stones,  with 
both  hands  pressed  upon  her  eyes. 

When  Ellen  looked  up  she  was  alone,  but  the  words 
of  her  tormentor  were  ringing  at  her  heart,  and  that  night 


THE   TEMPTER   AND   THE   TEMPTED.    17 

was  the  most  wretched   one   Iier  innocent  life  had  ever 
known. 

Every  human  life  has  its  vulture  thought,  and  this  it 
was  that  fastened  itself  upon  the  heart  of  Ellen  Fleming. 


CHAPTER  II. 

They  stood  together,  Franklin  and  young  Brownson,  on  one 
of  those  magnificent  steam-boats,  that  plough  the  mighty 
waters  of  the  Mississippi.  The  distant  shores,  heavy  with 
dank  foliage,  lay  on  either  hand  flat  and  sedgy,  while  the 
turbid  waters  of  the  great  river  surged  and  weltered  around 
them  with  the  force  of  an  unpent  ocean. 

Every  thing  was  unlike  the  scenery  of  his  own  mountain 
state,  and  yet  the  very  contrast  that  it  presented,  brought 
all  the  sweet  home  scenes  that  he  had  left  to  Franklin's 
mind.  For  the  first  time  in  many  days,  he  was  alone  and 
thoughtful.  The  excitement  of  travel,  new  scenes,  and 
persons  altogether  unknown,  would  have  disturbed  a  mind 
vivid  and  imaginative  as  his  at  any  time ;  but  he  had  never 
found  a  moment's  time  of  that  quiet  solitude  necessary  for 
reflection.  His  travelling  companion  was  ever  at  his  elbow, 
full  of  wit,  ready  to  communicate  the  knowledge  won  by 
former  experience  and  at  all  times  devoting  himself  as  it 
were  to  the  amusement  of  his  companion  with  a  quiet  ear- 
nestness that  excited  no  power  or  wish  of  resistance. 

Brownson  had  left  him  for  a  moment  and  Franklin  leaned 
over  the  railing,  glad  to  think  of  home — and  yet  with  a 
vague  sensation  of  self-reproach,  that  made  solitude  not 
quite  happiness.  When  before  had  two  weeks  gone  by 
without  affording  hours  and  hours  of  sweet  reflection, 
when  his  full  heart  panted  for  the  society  of  that  one  dear 
object  ?   When  had  he  ever  sunk  to  rest,  without  some  holy 

2* 


18  THEFOUNTAIN. 

thought  of  the  heing  who  had  become  a  portion  of  all  his 
hopes,  wreathing  his  heart,  as  it  were,  with  blossoms,  as 
slumber  stole  over  him?  These  thoughts  awoke  some- 
thing like  tender  remorse  in  Franklin's  bosom,  as  he  stood 
apart  from  a  group  of  young  men  with  whom  Brownson 
was  conversing.  It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  been 
alone  for  a  single  half  hour  during  their  rapid  journey 
from  the  East,  for  even  in  his  chamber  and  state-room  it 
happened  that  Brownson  had  been  his  companion. 

It  was  strange  what  a  fascination  this  man  had  woven 
around  the  young  northerner.  His  brilliant  wit  and  care- 
less hilarity  awoke  a  new  spirit  in  the  student,  who  had 
for  the  first  time  issued  from  the  seclusion  of  his  native 
place,  and  plunged  into  life.  Franklin  was  kept  in  a 
whirl  of  excitement ;  he  had  no  time  for  thought  or  feel- 
ing. The  new  scenes  opening  upon  him  every  moment 
seemed  to  fling  all  the  old  and  precious  landmarks  of  his 
heart  into  the  distance,  while  the  present  lay  around  him 
in  a  golden  haze.  It  seemed  months,  nay  years,  since  he 
had  left  the  hills  of  Maine,  and  every  mile  that  separated 
him  from  Ellen  Fleming  detracted  something  from  the 
pure  and  gentle  influence  that  her  beauty  and  goodness 
had  exercised  upon  his  character. 

All  this  was  the  work  of  Brownson.  The  man  of  the 
world  had  begun  his  work  of  death  upon  the  student  with 
terrible  fidelity.  This  Brownson  was  a  philosopher  in 
evil.  He  loved  the  study  of  a  heart  warped  slowly  to  its 
ruin  by  his  own  subtle  influence.  He  watched  the  blushing 
cheek,  the  glow  of  excitement  deepening  in  the  eyes  of 
his  victim,  with  cold  and  calculating  scrutiny.  His  feast 
of  revenge  was  preparing,  and  like  an  epicure  he  watched 
its  progress  with  patient  anticipation. 

By  the  time  Franklin  reached  the  Mississippi  he  was 
fully  prepared  for  a  kind  of  life  that  would  have  startled 
him  three  weeks  before.  In  the  cities  through  which 
they  had  passed,  Brownson  had  found  a  few  friends,  to 


THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPTED.     19 

whom  the  northerner  was  introduced.  With  these  per- 
sons he  had  been  an  object  of  especial  consideration. 
While  they  had  done  nothing  absolutely  calculated  to 
shock  the  sensitive  morality  of  the  young  man,  they  gradu- 
ally familiarized  him  to  scenes  which  swept  the  freshness 
away  from  a  young  heart,  as  constant  handling,  however 
careful,  wears  the  bloom  from  newly  gathered  fruit. 

Franklin  had  not  learned  to  sin  himself,  but  he  could 
look  upon  the  sins  of  others  with  leniency.  He  had 
learned  to  blush  at  his  own  abstemious  habits,  and  began 
to  sip  the  ruby  wine,  while  others  drank  freely.  There 
was  nothing  like  intoxication  among  the  men  to  whom 
Brownson  introduced  his  friend,  that  might  have  shocked 
the  refinement  of  Franklin's  nature.  Wine  made  them 
brilliant — nothing  more.  It  dashed  their  conversation 
with  wit,  and  shed  a  rose  tinge  over  the  passing  scene. 
Brownson  was  too  subtle  for  violent  transitions.  He  led 
his  victim  to  the  stream  in  which  he  wished  him  to 
plunge,  and  pointed  out  the  surface  where  waves  of  pur- 
ple and  gold  rippled  over  the  black  depths  of  water  un- 
derneath. Still  there  was  something  at  Franklin's  heart 
which  told  him  that  all  this  was  wrong,  and  as  he  leaned 
over  the  railing  that  night,  thoughts  of  the  quiet  old 
homestead,  where  Ellen  was  passing  the  weary  time  of 
his  absence,  brought  a  pang  to  his  heart.  He  had  never 
thought  of  her  before  with  pain ;  but  now  her  beautiful 
image,  as  it  rose  before  his  mind,  seemed  to  reproach  him. 

"  Come,"  said  Brownson,  touching  his  friend  on  the 
shoulder,  "  let  us  go  to  the  saloon ;  it  is  just  lighted  up, 
and  we  may  find  a  chess-table  unoccupied." 

Franklin  started — a  faint  smile  swept  over  his  face,  and 
taking  Brownson's  arm,  the  friends  went  into  the  saloon 
together.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  entered  the 
saloon  of  a  Mississippi  boat  after  lamplight,  and  the  bril- 
liant scene  which  it  presented,  made  him  pause  by  the 
door  in  absolute  bewilderment.     The    rich  carpets,  the 


20  THEFOUNTAIN. 

crimson  ottomans  and  couches  ranged  along  the  length 
of  the  room,  were  flooded  with  light,  which,  striking  a 
thousand  glowing  pendants  of  glass,  shed  a  rainbow 
brilliancy  over  every  object  it  touched.  Several  small 
tables  stood  in  the  room,  some  covered  with  chess-men, 
and  almost  all  offering  conveniences  for  games  of  chance, 
while  beneath  the  centre  chandelier  stood  a  large  round 
table,  from  which  a  crimson  cloth  swept  to  the  floor,  and 
on  this  cloth  lay  heaps  of  gold  and  silver,  glittering  and 
flashing  in  the  light  as  it  was  raked  to  and  fro,  as  fortune 
proved  favourable  or  adverse  to  the  different  members  of 
a  group  that  stood  closely  around,  some  watching  the 
game,  others  deeply  interested  in  its  chances. 

Franklin  started  and  shrunk  back  as  he  saw  the  eager 
and  excited  looks  with  which  this  group  watched  the 
game.  He  had  never  witnessed  high  play  before,  and 
the  scene  filled  him  with  a  sort  of  terror.  Brownson 
observed  the  change  in  his  countenance,  and  without 
approaching  the  centre  table,  led  the  way  to  a  couch 
placed  at  a  little  distance,  from  which  a  gleam  of  the  gold 
could  be  caught  whenever  the  group  opened  to  let  any 
one  in  or  out.  Brownson  seemed  to  be  well  known  on 
the  boat,  and  two  or  three  persons  left  the  centre  table  to 
join  him,  when  they  saw  that  he  avoided  them. 

"  Do  you  not  play  to  night,"  said  one  of  these  men,  a 
noble  looking  person  with  dark  hair  and  a  rich  olive  com- 
plexion. 

"  I  never  do  play,"  replied  Brownson,  lifting  his  eyes 
full  upon  the  man's  face,  and  turning  them  slowly  with  a 
side  glance  toward  Franklin. 

"Ah,  true,  I  had  forgotten,"  replied  the  man,  "but  the 
game  is  very  exciting  to  night,  even  I  who  never  bet,  as 
you  know,  have  been  half  tempted  to  fling  a  handful  of 
gold  upon  the  pile." 

"  It  is  well  that  you  came  away  in  time  to  avoid  the 
loss,"  replied  Brownson. 


THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPTED.    21 

"  I  deem  it  so,"  was  the  very  natural  rejoinder,  and 
placing  himself  on  the  couch  near  Franklin  the  stranger 
entered  into  a  very  pleasant  chatty  discourse  with  the 
young  men. 

"  Ah,  the  waiter  is  placing  wines  on  the  table  shall  we 
have  some  brought  hither  ?"  he  said  at  length,  as  a  mulatto 
passed  them  with  a  tray  upon  which  wines,  fruit,  and 
crystal  glasses  gleamed  richly  together,  "  Some  fruit  and 
wine  well  iced,  will  not  be  out  of  place;"  he  beckoned  the 
waiter  with  his  hand,  who  placed  the  tray  before  them. 

As  Franklin  lifted  the  first  glass  to  his  lips,  a  rapid  sign 
was  passed  between  Brownson  and  the  stranger,  and  they 
went  on  conversing  again.  Franklin  joined  them.  He 
was  naturally  eloquent,  and  a  single  glass  of  wine  was 
enough  to  arouse  his  faculties  and  divest  him  of  the  little 
remaining  diffidence,  that  was  the  result  of  a  studious  and 
secluded  life,  and  which  his  late  habits  of  mental  excite- 
ment had  not  quite  shaken  off.  There  was  something 
fresh  and  sparkling  in  the  flow  of  his  language  that 
seemed  to  captivate  the  stranger,  who  smiled  and  listened, 
now  and  then  interrupting  his  eloquence  with  some  sally 
of  quiet  wit,  as  with  seeming  unconsciousness  he  filled  the 
young  man's  glass,  who  drained  it  off  again  and  again,  du- 
ring the  pauses  of  conversation.  When  Franklin's  cheek 
was  flowing  with  crimson,  and  his  dark  eyes  on  fire 
with  excitement,  the  stranger  seemed  suddenly  interested 
in  what  was  going  forward  at  the  gaming  table. 

"Ha! there  goes  a  sweep  of  glorious  fortune!"  he  ex- 
claimed, as  a  young  man  at  the  table  swept  a  pile  of  gold 
into  his  handkerchief,  which  he  was  eagerly  knotting  over 
the  treasure.  "  Why  my  young  friend  there  has  made  his 
fortune.  The  first  time  he  ever  played  too,  I  must  learn 
the  amount  of  his  winnings  before  they  make  up  another 
game." 

The  stranger  started  up  and  went  toward  the  gaming 
table.     Brownson  followed  him,  and   after  a   moment's 


22  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

hesitation,  Franklin  mingled  also  with  the  crowd.  A  new 
game  was  forming,  and  in  the  bustle  Brownson  found  an 
opportunity  to  answer  a  question  whispered  in  his  ear  by 
the  stranger. 

"  No  he  is  not  rich,  but  is  acting  as  agent  for  another, 
and  has  money  with  him." 

"  We  shall  not  feel  the  difference,"  was  the  reply,  and 
turning  to  Franklin,  the  stranger  continued  the  conversation 
that  had  been  broken  off  over  their  wine. 

At  last  he  turned  toward  the  table,  where  heaps  of  coin 
were  already  glittering. 

"  My  friend's  good  fortune  almost  tempts  me  to  risk  an 
eagle  or  two,"  he  said,  addressing  Brownson,  "  what  say 
you  shall  we  join  and  thus  diminish  the  stakes?"  Brown- 
son shook  his  head,  "  I  am  no  gambler,"  he  said. 

"  Nor  am  I,  you  are  wrong  in  thinking  me  so,"  replied  the 
other,  apparently  much  hurt.  "  You  must  have  lived 
among  Puritans  at  the  north,  to  call  the  risk  of  a  single 
gold  eagle  gambling." 

"Forgive  me,  I  meant  no  offence,"  replied  Brownson, 
in  a  tone  of  regret. 

The  stranger  stepped  back  to  avoid  the  hand  which 
Brownson  had  extended. 

"  To  convince  you  of  it,  I  will  stake  an  eagle  or  even 
more  against  you  on  any  game,  at  which  my  friend  here 
can  join  us,"  persisted  Brownson,  he  added  in  a  low  voice 
to  Franklin,  "  do  not  hesitate,  you  see  how  deeply  he  feels 
my  thoughtless  speech." 

"  No,  no,  I  urge  no  man  against  his  principles  ;  besides 
I  dare  say  this  young  gentleman  hardly  knows  one  card 
from  anotlier." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  Franklin,  annoyed  by  the  tone 
of  well  bred  contempt  of  his  ignorance,  in  which  the  man 
had  spoken. 

"  Well  then,"  exclaimed  another  gentleman,  who  had 
scarcely  joined  in  the  conversation  before,  "  as  this  looks 


THE   TEMPTER   AND   THE   TEMPTED.    23 

too  much  like  gambling,  let  us,  who  only  seek  amusement, 
go  into  the  inner  room,  where  we  can  be  quiet,"  and  he 
led  the  way  to  a  little  apartment,  divided  from  the  main 
saloon,  by  a  partition  of  glass  ground  and  richly  painted, 
through  which  a  flood  of  gorgeous  light  was  streaming. 

"  Come,  it  will  not  do  to  hesitate  now,"  whispered 
Brownson  to  Franklin,  "  I  dislike  it  as  much  as  you  can, 
but  these  gentlemen  are  old  friends,  and  the  stakes  will 
be  nothing ;  they  never  play  except  for  amusement." 

Franklin  was  not  quite  himself  that  night ;  the  wine 
that  he  had  drank,  the  excitement  of  the  game  which  he 
had  been  watching  sharply,  had  their  effect  upon  his  ar- 
dent temperament.  For  one  instant  the  shadow  of  con- 
tending thoughts  swept  over  his  face,  and  then  he  took 
Brownson's  arm  with  a  laugh  that  seemed  to  defy  his 
better  angel,  and  followed  the  gentlemen  who  had  entered 
the  inner  saloon. 

It  was  near  daylight  before  the  two  young  men  came 
forth  again,  and  then  the  contrast  between  them  was  mar- 
vellous. Franklin's  cheeks  were  of  a  hot  crimson,  his 
eyes  flashed,  and  the  hand  which  lay  upon  Brownson's 
arm  trembled  so  violently  that  a  great  diamond  on  the 
little  finger  was  agitated  till  it  flashed  in  the  light  like  a 
star.  Franklin  had  won  the  diamond  from  the  very  man 
who  had  taunted  him  with  ignorance  of  any  game. 

Brownson  had  been  a  loser,  but  there  was  a  smile 
upon  his  lips — a  sweet,  quiet  smile,  that  seemed  to  com- 
passionate his  friend.  He  congratulated  Franklin,  how- 
ever, in  a  low  voice,  but  blended  caution  with  his  words, 
and  protested  that  it  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  played 
for  more  than  a  few  shillings,  and  it  should  be  the  last. 
Franklin  glanced  at  his  diamond  and  laughed. 

"You  have  not  won  this,"  he  said,  touching  the  jewel 
with  his  finger. 

Half  an  hour  after  the  two  young  men  were  in  their 
state-room.     Franklin  lay  upon  his  berth  sound  asleep ; 


24  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

his  finely  chiselled  lips  were  vividly  red,  and  parted  to  the 
force  of  his  heavy  respiration.  The  scent  of  wine  hung 
faintly  around  him,  and  there  was  an  unnatural  glow 
upon  his  broad  forehead,  from  which  the  dark  locks 
flowed  back  in  disorder. 

Brownson  was  still  up.  He  bent  over  that  sleeping 
form ;  an  exulting  smile  stole  over  his  face,  as  he  turned 
away,  and  taking  out  his  watch  he  wound  it  up,  mutter- 
ing, "  In  a  few  more  weeks  he  may  return  to  her,  and 
welcome !" 

Then  he  retired  to  rest,  and  the  huge  boat  swept  on  its 
way — the  great  engine  beating  and  toiling  within  it  like 
a  mighty  heart,  agitating  every  timber  with  its  pulsations, 
and  belching  forth  groans  and  smoke,  as  if  the  beautiful 
monster  had  become  weary  of  its  eternal  strife  with  the 
father  of  waters. 


CHAPTER  III. 

It  was  three  months  after  Franklin  landed  with  his  friend 
at  New  Orleans,  deep  in  one  of  those  glorious  nights 
that  are  known  only  to  a  southern  climate,  he  stood  upon 
the  pavement  before  the  St.  Charles'  Hotel. 

"  Come,  come,  you  can  retrieve  it  all  to-morrow  night," 
said  Brownson,  persuasively.  "  Why  did  you  not  take 
my  advice,  and  not  tempt  your  luck  again  ?" 

"  Would  to  heaven  that  I  had,"  cried  Franklin,  dis- 
tractedly, dashing  one  hand  against  his  pale  forehead. 
"  No,  I  will  not  go  in  yet — I  must  be  alone  ;"  and  tearing 
his  arm  from  the  hold  which  Brownson  had  fixed  upon 
it,  the  unhappy  man  darted  up  the  street  and  disappeared. 

"  I  am  afraid  we  have  brought  his  entire  ruin  on  too 
early,"  said  Brownson  to  his  friend  of  the  steamboat, 
who  joined  him  that  moment. 


THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPTED.     25 

"  How  can  that  be,  when  we  have  all  the  money  that 
he  can  command?"  replied  the  other. 

"  I  liave  not  been  playing  the  game  for  money  alone," 
said  Brownson,  coolly.  "  Perhaps  even  now  it  will  be 
well  to  return  his  losses  for  a  time." 

The  man  to  whom  he  spoke  laughed,  mockingly,  and 
muttered  something  about  "  a  bird  in  hand  ;"  but  Brown- 
son  had  left  him,  and  went  in  pursuit  of  his  victim. 

Desperate  and  wild,  with  a  consciousness  of  ruin, 
Franklin  hurried  along  the  streets,  he  cared  not  whither, 
till  all  at  once  he  found  himself  in  the  suburbs,  and  oppo- 
site one  of  those  Catholic  burial  places  where  the  death 
angel  lies  slumbering  literally  in  a  garment  of  flowers. 
There  had  been  a  night  funeral,  and  the  gate-keeper  stood 
near  the  entrance  of  this  paradise  of  tombs.  Franklin 
thrust  a  piece  of  money  into  his  hands,  and  went  in,  for 
it  seemed  as  if  there  only  could  he  jfind  the  solitude  for 
which  his  heart  panted.  The  profound  silence  reigning 
within  the  beautiful  wilderness  of  graves,  where  the 
snowy  tombs  lay  dressed  in  blossoms  that  made  the  calm 
air  dense  with  fragrance,  the  consciousness  that  death 
was  all  round  him,  tranquilized  the  spirit  that  had  been 
goaded  even  to  thoughts  of  suicide.  Franklin  checked 
the  impetuous  step,  with  which  he  had  hurried  through 
the  streets,  a  sensation  of  awe  crept  over  him,  and  he  sat 
down  near  one  of  the  tombs,  and  bent  his  forehead  against 
the  marble  that  scarcely  seemed  whiter  than  his  face.  It 
was  one  of  those  clear  balmy  nights  when  the  sky  of  a 
southern  clime  appears  luminous,  as  if  some  light  more 
subtle  than  moon  or  stars  can  give,  were  diffusing  itself 
through  the  bending  azure.  The  stars  hung  in  this 
beautiful  atmosphere  like  diamonds,  quivering  in  a  pow- 
erful light,  clear,  large,  and  glittering.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  profound  quiet — in  the  glorious  stars  looking 
down  upon  him,  that  quenched  the  fever  in  Franklin's 
veins,  and  chilled  him  to  the  heart.     The  innocent  flowers 

3 


26  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

that  surrounded  him,  bending  beneath  their  dew,  in  the 
beautiful  starHght,  seemed  weeping  over  his  fall,  and  yet 
smiling  gently  upon  him.  These  blossoms  drooping  around 
him  so  meekly  and  so  pure,  brought  one  to  his  mind  with 
whom  these  sweet  children  of  the  soil  had  ever  been 
associated  in  his  imagination.  He  thought  of  Ellen 
Fleming — and  now  the  hot  tears  rushed  to  his  eyes — his 
haughty  lips  trembled,  and  the  young  man  wept.  The 
atmosphere  he  breathed  was  holy,  and  in  that  labyrinth 
of  funeral  flowers  Franklin  seemed  to  have  aroused  his 
good  angel  from  her  long  slumber.  The  stars,  as  they 
looked  down  upon  him — the  blossoms,  bending  on  their 
delicate  stems — the  very  leaves  seemed  whispering  him 
that  it  was  not  yet  too  late. 

The  young  man  arose  and  stood  up  among  the  tombs, 
with  his  head  uncovered,  in  the  holy  starlight,  and  there, 
in  the  presence  of  the  dead,  with  the  flowers  bowing 
their  heads  around  him  as  witnesses,  he  made  a  solemn 
and  firm  determination  never  to  touch  cards  or  dice  again. 

Franklin  was  one  to  keep  his  resolve.  He  had  intel- 
lect, energy,  and  firmness  of  purpose,  when  once  aroused; 
and  the  demon  of  play  had  not  woven  his  toils  so  strongly 
that  a  soul  like  his  might  not  rend  them  apart. 

Scarcely  was  the  wordless  vow  taken — scarcely  had 
Franklin  dared  to  look  upward,  and  call  the  bright  stars  as 
witnesses  to  his  promise,  when  the  tempter  stood  before 
him.  Even  where  death  lay  sleeping  in  his  labyrinth  of 
flowers,  Brownson  had  sought  his  victim.  But  there 
was  an  expression  upon  the  young  man's  brow — a  holy 
light  in  his  dark  eyes,  that  threatened  to  baffle  the  human 
fiend  of  his  revenge. 

"  Come,"  said  Brownson,  in  the  sweet  soothing  tones 
that  he  could  adopt  at  pleasure,  "  let  us  leave  this  gloomy 
place.     What  possessed  you  to  come  hither  ?" 

"  It  has  not  been  a  gloomy  place  to  me,"  replied  Frank 
lin,  and  a  beautiful  smile  parted  his  lips.     "  It  has  been 


THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPTED.    27 

my  salvation !  There  and  now  I  have  taken  an  oath 
never  to  touch  cards  again.  The  dead  have  heard  me, 
and  so  help  me  heaven,  I  believe  that  she  is  conscious  of 
my  resolve  also." 

"You  are  right,"  said  Brownson,  with  energy,  "and 
would  have  taken  the  resolution  long  ago,  had  my  advice 
been  heeded." 

Franklin  did  not  answer,  but  he  reluctantly  obeyed  the 
impulse  of  his  friend's  arm,  and  walked  slowly  from  the 
cemetery. 

"  And  how,"  said  Brownson,  "  will  you  repay  the 
money  which  was  entrusted  to  your  care  ? — how  transact 
the  business  which  was  to  have  been  the  first  great  step 
in  your  profession,  without  it?" 

"  Ellen  shall  know  all.  It  was  her  father's  money. 
She  will  help  to  redeem  me  from  the  consequences  of  my 
crime,"  said  Franklin. 

"  She  will  cast  you  off,  rather,"  said  Brownson,  as  if 
musing  with  himself. 

"  Let  it  be  so,  then,"  replied  Franklin,  in  a  broken 
voice,  "  I  shall  not  have  deceived  her." 

That  night  Franklin  wrote  to  his  betrothed,  for  the  first 
time  in  many  weeks.  He  wrote  the  truth,  but  not  the 
whole  truth ;  for  though  he  had  flung  off  one  terrible 
habit,  the  wine  serpent  lay  coiling  around  his  heart ;  but 
the  viper  was  not  yet  full  grown ;  it  had  not  begun  to 
gnaw  away  the  finer  chords  of  his  nature,  to  appease  its 
hunger.  He  felt  it  not,  and  therefore  was  unconscious  of 
its  presence.  So  of  the  wine  serpent  Franklin  said  no- 
thing. 

Brownson  read  the  letter  and  smiled.  Though  half  his 
web  had  been  torn  away  by  the  stern  resolve  of  his  vic- 
tim, he  knew  that  there  still  remained  fibres  enough  to 
entangle  that  strong  man's  nature — only  he  resolved  to 
be  more  cautious  in  weaving  the  threads. 


28  THEFOUNTAIN. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


On  the  very  night  when  FrankUn  took  his  vow  in  the 
CathoUc  cemetery  at  New  Orleans,  Ellen  Fleming  sat  by 
the  death-bed  of  her  father.  The  old  man  had  died  with 
her  hand  in  his,  and  blessing  her  with  the  last  words  that 
quivered  from  his  lips.  The  poor  girl  was  alone  with  the 
dead,  for  she  could  not  bear  to  summon  strangers  to  share 
her  mournful  vigil.  She  knelt  down,  pressing  her  fore- 
head upon  the  cold  hand  that  had  clung  to  hers  so  long 
as  a  pulse  fluttered  in  it,  and  in  the  grief  of  her  bereave- 
ment, her  mind  turned  with  a  sort  of  supernatural  con- 
straint upon  her  absent  lover.  She  was  worn  out  with 
tears  and  watching,  and  it  may  be  that  slumber  stole 
over  her  as  she  prayed.  But  it  seemed  that  a  mirage 
had  reached  her  from  afar,  and  that  she  had  left  the 
death-bed  of  her  parent  for  a  strange  place,  flooded  with 
starlight,  filled  with  gleaming  marble,  and  literally  tangled 
over  with  blossoms  quite  unknown  to  her,  but  around 
which  a  most  intoxicating  perfume  floated.  Seated  among 
these  flowers,  and  leaning  his  head  mournfully  against  a 
block  of  marble,  sat  her  lover,  sad  and  apparently  in  deep 
trouble.  She  strove  to  force  a  passage  through  the  tan- 
gled thickets,  but  the  appearance  of  a  third  person  made 
her  pause.  The  face  of  the  intruder  was  dimly  seen  in 
the  starlight,  but  she  recognized  that  of  her  enemy 
Brownson,  and  started  to  find  herself  still  kneeling  by 
the  death  couch  of  her  only  parent. 

Spite  of  her  own  terrible  sorrow — spite  of  the  presence 
of  the  dead,  Ellen  could  not  withdraw  her  thoughts  from 
thp  strange  vision  that  had  haunted  her  mournful  vigil, 


THE  TEMPTER  AND  THE  TEMPTED.    29 

and  in  her  prayers  that  night  the  poor  girl  forgot  her  own 
bereavement,  in  her  spirit  struggle  before  the  Father  in 
heaven,  in  behalf  of  her  absent  lover. 

Three  weeks  from  the  day  of  her  father's  funeral,  Ellen 
the  orphan  received  Franklin's  epistle. 

"Come  to  me  at  once, for  I  am  alone;  I  cannot  plead 
your  cause  with  my  father  now,  for  he  is  in  heaven.  The 
money  that  you  have  lost,  would  have  been  mine  by  in- 
heritance, and  is  therefore  yours.  The  homestead  must  be 
sold,  and  instead  of  an  heiress,  you  will  only  wed  a  fond 
and  true  heart.  Come  then,  and  we  may  yet  have  cause 
to  bless  the  loss  which  brings  you  back  to  the  orphan  in 
her  deep  bereavement." 

This  was  the  reply  which  Ellen  Fleming  sent  to  her 
lover. 

The  friends  were  together  when  Franklin  received  it ; 
and  when  the  lover  started  to  his  feet,  and  proclahned  his 
intention  of  going  north  at  once,  Brownson  glanced  at  his 
flushed  forehead  and  smiled. 

They  left  New  Orleans  together — the  tempter  and  the 
tempted,  for  Brownson  could  not  yet  trust  his  victim  to 
the  better  influences  that  awaited  him.  The  villain  thirsted 
to  witness  the  fulfilment  of  his  own  prophecy.  It  was 
settled  that  he,  the  lover's  friend,  should  be  his  groomsman 
at  the  wedding,  and  so  the  friends  travelled  north  together, 
and  the  wine  serpent  that  began  to  coil  more  and  more 
tightly  around  Franklin's  heart,  grew  and  battened  during 
the  journey. 

Ellen  was  married  at  the  old  homestead  in  the  room 
where  her  father  died  ;  and  with  a  single  white  rose  re- 
lieving the  gloom  of  her  mourning  garments. 

From  that  day  the  home  which  should  have  been  hers, 
passed  into  strange  hands  and  Ellen  with  her  husband 
went  forth  into  the  world  with  the  exception  of  this  pur- 
chase money,  dependent  on  his  exertions  as  a  lawyer  for 
support. 

3  * 


30  THEFOUNTAIN. 

Brownson  left  the  young  couple  for  a  season,  and  but 
for  a  vague  dread  to  which  she  dare  not  give  form  or  out- 
hne  even  to  her  own  heart,  Ellen  might  have  been  happy; 
but  vv^hy  should  we  trace  the  sufferings,  the  deep  humilia- 
tion of  a  wife  who  sees  her  husband  sinking  step  by  step, 
into  that  terrible  slavery,  which  has  wrecked  so  many  of 
the  most  noble  intellects  on  earth.  Poor  Ellen,  that  cruel 
prophecy  was  reahzed ;  she  the  delicate,  the  good,  the 
young  mother,  and  the  still  loving  wife,  was  doomed  at 
last  to  the  deepest  misery  that  a  sensitive  woman  can 
know,  that  of  seeing  the  object  of  her  love  debased  in  the 
presence  of  his  fellow  men.  Still  Franklin  was  not  rec- 
ognized as  a  drunkard  ;  he  was  never  seen  intoxicated  in 
the  street,  his  profession  was  not  altogether  neglected. 
The  entire  secret  of  his  degrading  habits  rested  with  his 
wife  and  his  arch  enemy,  whose  revenge  was  not  yet  sa- 
tiated, by  the  pallid  cheek  and  mournful  eyes  of  the  un- 
happy girl  who  had  wounded  his  pride,  and  was  therefore, 
subject  to  his  continued  hate. 

The  time  for  his  complete  vengeance  at  length  arrived. 
Few  men  at  the  bar  could  equal  Franklin  in  that  fervid 
eloquence  which  is  the  most  beautiful  effect  of  genius. 
Spite  of  his  irregular  habits  the  young  lawyer  was  often 
employed  in  cases  of  great  importance,  and  was  fast  gain- 
ing a  reputation  and  practice  in  the  higher  courts. 

One  of  these  cases,  in  which  a  heavy  amount  of  property 
was  at  stake,  came  up  for  argument,  one  day  earlier  than 
Franklin  had  expected;  and  he  had  left  the  dinner  table  at 
a  hotel,  where  a  company  of  convivial  friends  were  feasting, 
in  haste,  and  entered  the  court  room,  flushed  with  wine, 
and  reeling  in  his  walk.  Before  the  evidence  was  entirely 
closed,  Franklin  fell  forward  with  his  arms  upon  the  coun- 
sel table  and  his  face  downward,  fast  asleep.  That  night 
he  returned  home  a  disgraced  man. 

Ellen  had  been  watching  for  him,  all  unconscious  of  the 
terrible  blow  that  awaited  her,  till,  weary  and  overcome 


THE   TEMPTER   AND   THE   TEMPTED.    31 

with  her  wretched  vigil,  she  sunk  to  sleep  in  her  chair. 
FrankUn  entered  with  his  night  key,  leaving  the  door  open. 
He  was  now  thoroughly  sober,  with  all  the  original  pride 
of  his  nature  thoroughly  aroused.  His  clothes  were  dis- 
ordered, his  cheek  deathly  pale,  and  drops  of  perspiration 
hung  on  his  upper  lip  and  temples.  He  went  to  the  cradle, 
gazed  upon  his  infant  a  moment,  and  then  softly  approaclicd 
the  chair  in  which  Ellen  was  sleeping.  Her  slumber  must 
have  been  profound,  or  the  groan  that  broke  from  her 
wretched  husband  would  have  aroused  her.  For  the  du- 
ration of  a  minute  he  stood  gazing  upon  that  sweet  face, 
clouded  with  trouble,  and  so  full  of  silent  sorrow.  Then 
he  turned  away,  opened  his  desk,  and  took  out  a  pistol. 
With  a  shaking  hand  he  lifted  the  instrument  of  death  to 
his  temples,  when  his  arm  was  seized  and  Brownson 
dashed  down  the  pistol.  It  went  off;  a  faint  cry  like  that 
of  a  wounded  fawn  rang  up  from  the  cradle,  and  that 
was  followed  by  a  shriek  so  wild  and  full  of  anguish,  that 
even  Brownson  turned  white  with  horror.  Ellen  started 
from  her  chair,  and  staggered  a  step  toward  the  cradle,  and 
sunk  to  the  floor,  senseless  and  bathed  in  blood. 

Franklin  lifted  her  in  his  arms,  and  turned  with  a  look 
of  fearful  despair  to  his  friend. 

"  Go,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  terrible  calmness,  "we  have 
murdered  her  at  last  !" 

Brownson  bent  over  the  lifeless  woman,  while  her  hus- 
band tore  away  the  folds  of  her  dress,  and  searched  for  the 
wound.  The  neck  and  the  snowy  shoulder  were  bathed  in 
blood,  and  the  bullet  had  pierced  her  arm,  half  way  above 
the  elbow,  shattering  the  bone. 

"  Thank  God  it  is  not  fatal,  I  am  not  her  murderer," 
cried  the  wretched  husband,  with  a  burst  of  passionate 
feeling.  Let  her  be  spared  to  me,  oh  great  God  of  Hea- 
ven !  let  her  be  spared,  and  my  whole  life  shall  be  given  in 
atonement  for  the  past." 

Ellen  heard  him  through  all  the  pain  and  agony  of  that 


32  THEFOUNTAIN. 

moment.  A  smile  came  to  her  white  Hps,  and  lifting  her- 
self with  sudden  energy,  she  threw  lier  unhurt  urm  over 
his  neck. 

"Thank  God!  thank  God!"  broke  from  her  pale  lips, 
and  tears  gushed  through  her  closed  lashes. 

He  wept  also.  That  evening,  then  and  there,  with  her 
wounded  form  upon  his  bosom,  and  her  mortal  enemy- 
standing  by,  the  husband  gave  a  promise  never  again  to 
lift  the  wine  cup  to  his  lips.  He  sealed  the  promise  on  her 
pallid  brow,  and  that  moment  the  husband  and  wife  were 
happier  than  they  had  ever  been  on  earth  before. 

Brownson  turned  away,  for  even  his  heart  was  touched. 
He  knew  how  faithfully  Franklin  would  keep  a  resolution 
when  once  formed  ;  and  from  that  hour  the  tempter  and 
THE  TEMPTED  Separated  forever.  The  victim  was  emanci- 
pated, and  Ellen  was  happy  on  her  bed  of  pain. 


"GIVE   ME   MY   HUSBAND!" 


BY    T.    S.     ARTHUR. 


"Harry  is  weak-headed,  Davidson.  Don't  tempt  him; 
yon  're  an  old  hand  at  the  bellows,  and  can  stand  ten  times 
what  he  can." 

"  I  know.  A  single  glass  makes  him  as  merry  as  a 
cricket." 

"  Then  why  keep  asking  him  to  drink  ?  Or  why  per- 
suade him  to  meet  with  us  every  evening  ?  He  is  much 
better  at  home,  with  his  young  wife.  Poor  creature  !  If 
her  husband  keeps  your  company  long,  I  pity  her." 

"  Ha  !  ha  !"  laughed  Davidson,  "  If  he  does  keep  my 
company,  he  will  find  himself  in  seven  leagued  boots.  I 
go  it  fast." 

"  So  you  do,  and,  therefore,  should  not  take  a  man  like 
Harry  Jones  by  the  hand.  Let  him  go  his  own  gait,  and 
do  you  go  yours.     There  is  room  enough  for  you  both." 

"  But  I  like  to  get  hold  of  a  fellow  such  as  he  is,  now 
and  then,  just  for  the  fun  of  the  thing.  It  wont  hurt 
him  to  get  a  little  merry  occasionally." 

"  I  am  not  so  certain  of  that.  A  man  like  him  is  very 
apt  to  go  down  rapidly  when  he  once  gets  a  fondness  for 
drink.  You  and  I  can  stand  it  well  enough.  We  can 
enjoy  ourselves ;  but  Harry  Jones,  depend  upon  it,  is  in 
great  danger." 

"  Never  fear.     I  '11   put  his  head  under  water  a  few 

33 


34  THEPOUNTAIN. 

times,  and  half  drown  him,  just  for  the  sport.     It  will  cure 
him  of  venturing  in  beyond  his  depth." 

"But  think  how  it  will  grieve  his  wife  to  have  him 
come  home  in  such  a  condition.  I  have  met  her  in  the 
street  several  times  lately,  and  imagined  that  she  had  a 
troubled  look." 

"  Why  should  she  ?  We  've  never  yet  sent  her  husband 
home  drunk." 

"  Although  so  near  it,  many  times,  that  his  wife  could 
not  have  helped  seeing  it." 

"  Sally  Jones  is  a  nice  little  body ;  I  always  liked  her 
uncommonly  well,"  returned  Davidson ;  "  but  she  must 
not  expect  her  husband  to  be  always  at  her  apron  string, 
nor  always  in  a  condition  to  walk  a  chalk  line." 

"You're  a  hard  customer,  Davidson,"  returned  his 
companion,  laughing,  "  I  suppose  I  jnust  let  you  have 
your  own  way,  even  if  Jones  goes  to  ruin  and  his  wife's 
heart  is  broken." 

"  I  've  ruined  you,  and  broken  your  wife's  heart,  hav  'nt 
I?" 

"  Not  quite.  I  'm  not  so  easily  ruined ;  nor  is  my  wife's 
heart  easily  broken.  But  we  '11  dismiss  that  subject.  If 
you  are  determined  that  Harry  Jones  shall  be  there,  let  it 
be  so ;  I  'm  not  over  particular.  He 's  very  good  com- 
pany, to  say  the  least  of  it." 

Davidson,  and  a  few  like  him,  hale  fellows  well  met, 
had  fixed  upon  the  next  Thursday  evening  for  a  regular 
drinking  frolic.  The  proposition  to  invite  Harry  Jones 
was  met  by  one  of  the  party  in  the  way  just  shown. 

"I  shall  not  be  home  until  late  to  night,  Sally,"  said 
Jones,  as  he  was  about  rising  from  the  table  at  dinner  time, 
on  the  following  Thursday.  "  I  have  promised  to  join  a 
small  party  of  friends  this  evening  at  Baker's,  and  shall  not 
have  time  to  come  home  after  the  store  is  closed." 

Jones'  wife  made  no  answer.  But  her  countenance  fell. 
Her  husband  noticed  this,  and  understood  the  cause.     He 


"give    me    my    husband!"  35 

felt  worried  all  the  afternoon.  Sometimes  he  was  inclined 
to  find  fanlt  with  his  wife  for  tronbling  herself  about  him  ; 
at  other  times  he  half  resolved  not  to  join  the  convivial 
party,  bnt  to  go  home  after  his  store  was  closed,  and  spend 
the  evening  there.  His  mind  continued  to  vacillate,  in 
this  way,  for  some  hours,  but  finally  settled  upon  the  reso- 
lution to  do  as  he  had  said  he  would  do — ^join  the  party. 

"  Here  comes  Jones,"  remarked  Davidson,  as  the  for- 
mer came  into  the  room  they  had  engaged  at  Baker's. 
"  We  '11  have  some  fun  with  him  before  the  evening 's 
over.  I  '11  lay  a  wager  he  's  more  than  three  sheets  in  the 
wind  in  the  space  of  an  hour." 

"  0  no,"  said  he  to  whom  this  remark  was  made.  Jones 
is  the  last  man  to  indulge  too  freely.  I  never  saw  him 
out  of  the  way." 

"  Nor  I  much.  But  he  can't  stand  any  thing.  Why,  a 
good  strong  glass  of  braiidy  toddy  would  make  him  see 
double." 

"  He  knows  that,  I  suppose,  and  will  drink  very  mod- 
erately." 

"  You  '11  see.  My  word  for  it,  he  will  be  under  the  table 
the  first  man." 

Possessed  of  a  very  demon  of  mischief,  Davidson  took  a 
strange  delight  in  seeing  the  heels  of  any  one  tripped  up  by 
drink,  especially  if  the  person  were  quiet  and  inoffensive, 
and,  as  he  said  of  Jones,  a  little  weak-headed.  The  con- 
sequences that  might  follow  never  seemed  to  be  thought 
of  by  him ;  or,  if  thought  of,  never  cared  for.  He  seemed 
to  have  a  particular  desire  to  see  Jones  intoxicated,  and 
had  several  times  tempted  him  to  drink  more  than  was 
prudent,  much  to  Jones'  subsequent  mortification,  and  the 
heart-sorrow  of  his  wife.  On  this  occasion,  his  prophecy 
was  founded  upon  a  resolution  to  deceive  Jones  as  to  the 
strength  of  his  glass,  and  thus  to  make  him  drink  more 
than  double  the  quantity  he  supposed  he  was  taking.  In 
order  to  do  this,  he  privately  instructed  the  waiter,  when 


36  THEFOUNTAIN. 

brandy  toddies  were  ordered,  to  have  one  glass  made  of 
doable  strength,  but  concealed  by  a  corresponding  quantity 
of  sugar,  and  to  be  sure  to  have  that  glass  served  to  Jones. 
The  waiter  understood  the  trick,  and  executed  the  order 
strictly.  As  Davidson  had  said,  poor  Jones  was  more  than 
three  parts  intoxicated  in  less  than  an  hour. 

Fortunately,  it  happened  that  one  of  the  party  felt  a  par- 
ticular interest  in  the  young  man  and  his  family,  and  man- 
aged to  draw  him  off  from  the  company  before  he  drank 
any  more.  As  it  was,  he  had  to  support  him,  firmly,  by 
the  arm,  until  he  got  him  home. 

After  her  husband  left  the  house  at  dinner  time,  Mrs. 
Jones  went  to  her  room,  feeling  as  if  a  heavy  hand  were 
laid  upon  her  heart.  She  knew  what  Davidson  had 
alleged,  that  her  husband  was  not  very  strong-minded,  and 
could  not  stand  up  very  firmly  against  temptation ;  she, 
therefore,  trembled  whenever  he  went  into  company  ;  more 
especially,  as  he  had,  within  the  past  few  months,  come 
home  several  times,  much  under  the  influence  of  liquor. 
To  her,  he  was  ever  kind  and  affectionate, — even  after  he 
had  been  drinking  freely,  his  manner  towards  her  remained 
the  same. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Mrs,  Jones  tried  to  compose  her 
mind  during  the  afternoon, — it  was  in  vain  that  she  tried 
to  sit  quietly  at  her  sewing  as  usual.  She  could  not  settle 
herself  to  do  any  thing.  Sometimes  she  would  endeavor  to 
conquer  this  unhappy  state  of  mind,  by  arguments  against 
it.  But  they  fell  powerless.  She  had  a  woman's  percep- 
tion of  evil,  and  no  reasonings  could  dispel  them. 

As  night  closed  in,  the  gloom  of  her  feelings  increased. 
She  did  not  have  supper  as  usual.  There  was  no  one  to 
eat  but  herself,  and  she  had  no  desire  for  food.  Her  babe 
lay  asleep  in  its  cradle,  but  she  could  not  improve  ihe  time 
in  sewing  or  reading,  for  her  hand  trembled  too  much  to 
do  the  one  and  her  mind  was  too  much  disturbed  to  enjoy 
the  other.     The  time  wore  on  heavily. 


"give    me    my    husband!"  37 

"  Not  till  late."  She  murmured,  sadly,  as  she  heard  the 
city  clock  strike  ten.  "  How  long  will  that  be  ?  Twelve,  one, 
two  o'clock  ?  Oh,  it  will  be  a  weary,  anxious  time  till  then  ! 
I  wish  lie  would  not  go  into  company.  There  is  danger 
there  for  him.  He  used  to  think  home  attractive  enough. 
No  temptation  could  draw  him  away  from  my  side.  He 
would  read  to  me  and  talk  to  me  for  hours.  Oh,  that  was 
a  happy  time  !  He  is  changed  from  what  he  was.  Why 
should  it  be  ?  I  cannot  tell.  I  love  him  as  tenderly  :  yea, 
my  love  for  him  grows  with  increasing  years.  Hark  !  was 
not  that  his  voice  at  the  door.  I  am  sure  I  heard  a  voice. 
Yes,  there  is  a  hand  upon  the  lock.  It  is  Hepry.  Why 
do  'nt  he  open  the  door  and  come  in  ?" 

As  she  said  this,  the  street  door  opened  and  was  thrown 
back  with  a  heavy  jar,  and  some  one  entered  and  came 
along  the  passage  with  an  unequal  movement.  Mrs.  Jones 
ran  out  in  alarm. 

"  Oh  Henry  !"  she  exclaimed,  clasping  her  hands  togeth- 
er.    "  Can  this  indeed  be  you  ?" 

She  seized  the  arms  of  her  staggering  husband,  and  ea- 
gerly looked  in  his  face.  One  glance  was  enough  to  sicken 
her  heart.  Ah  !  what  an  age  of  misery  is  condensed  into 
a  single  moment  like  this,  when  a  loving  wife,  for  the  first 
time,  sees  the  face  of  the  husband  she  honors,  blank  and 
distorted  from  intoxication.  As  best  she  could,  poor  Mrs. 
Jones  got  her  husband  up  stairs  and  into  bed.  She  slept 
little  that  night. 

On  the  next  morning,  Henry  Jones  had  but  a  faint  rec- 
ollection of  the  particulars  of  the  evening's  disgrace.  But 
he  saw,  in  his  wife's  distressed  countenance,  enough  to 
satisfy  him  that  he  had  come  home  in  a  sad  plight.  He 
was,  however,  sorely  puzzled  to  understand  how  he  could 
have  fallen  so  suddenly  and  so  low.  He  did  not  remember 
having  taken  but  a  glass  or  two,  which  did  not  appear  to 
have  more  than  the  usual  strength. 

Little  or  nothing  was  said  at  the  morning  meal,  and  but 

4 


38  THEFOUNTAIN. 

little  food  taken  by  either  the  husband  or  wife.  Jones's 
head  ached  badly,  but  he  did  not  mention  it,  nor  speak  of 
the  wretched  feeling  that  pervaded  both  mind  and  body. 
It  was  late  when  he  got  to  his  store,  and  found  one  or  two 
customers  waiting.  Every  one  who  came  in  remarked 
upon  his  appearance  and  asked  if  he  were  sick.  He  re- 
plied in  the  affirmative,  and  then  changed  the  subject  as 
quickly  as  possible. 

While  Henry  Jones  was  suffering  severely  from  mortifi- 
cation and  the  indisposition  caused  by  the  evening's  excess, 
and  his  wife  was  bowed  down  in  spirit  and  sorely  afflicted, 
Davidson,  who  had  been  the  cause  of  all  this  pain,  was 
exulting  over  what  he  had  done,  among  his  companions. 

"  How  I  should  have  liked  to  have  been  in  the  next 
room  when  Jones  got  home,"  he  said  to  one ;  "  it  was,  I 
have  no  doubt,  a  rich  scene.  The  way  his  wife  stood 
aghast  when  he  came  in  must  have  been  amusing.  He 
was  too  far  gone  for  a  curtain  lecture.  But  that  came  no 
doubt  in  the  morning.  Ha  !  ha  !  How  I  like  to  get  hold 
of  a  green  one  like  him." 

"  He  '11  steer  clear  of  you  next  time;"  was  the  laughing 
answer  to  this. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  He  does  'nt  suspect  me.  I  managed 
the  thing  too  adroitly." 

"  But  he  '11  keep  clear  of  all  drinking  parties  I  fancy." 

"  No  matter.  If  I  take  it  into  my  head,  I  '11  have  him 
drunk  once  a  week  for  the  next  month." 

"  You  will  ?" 

«  Certainly  I  will." 

"  I  doubt  it,  after  last  night's  experience." 

«  What  '11  you  bet  ?" 

"  An  oyster  supper." 

"  Done." 

«  Done." 

"  Here  's  my  hand  to  it.  To  day  is  Tuesday.  On  next 
Monday,  if  he  is  'nt  too  far  gone  to  walk  strait,  before 


"give    me    my    husband!"  39 

twelve  o'clock  in  the  day,  I  will  agree  to  forfeit  the  oyster 
supper." 

"  Very  well,  we  will  see." 

On  the  second  day  after  Jones'  fall,  he  ventured  to  talk 
freely  with  his  wife  on  the  subject,  in  order  to  dispel  the 
distressing  gloom  that  hung  over  her  mind.  He  made  a 
vow  in  her  presence,  that  he  would  never  again  join  any 
drinking  party,  nor  put  himself  in  the  way  of  temptation. 
This  brought  sunshine  back  to  the  young  wife's  heart. 

On  the  next  Saturday,  Davidson  dropped  into  Jones's 
store,  and  after  chatting  with  him  some  time,  asked  him  if 
he  did  'nt  want  to  see  a  new  silk  reel  that  a  friend  of  his 
had  invented,  by  means  of  which  the  whole  process  of 
reeling  was  rendered  much  easier  and  certain  as  regards 
uniformity.  Now  the  silk  culture  was  one  of  Jones's 
hobbies,  and  Davidson  knew  this.  He  replied  at  once  that 
nothing  would  give  him  greater  pleasure.  It  was  arranged 
that  Davidson  should  call  for  him  on  Monday  morning  at 
ten  o'clock.  Precisely  at  the  hour  he  was  there,  and  Jones, 
unsuspicious  of  evil,  accompanied  him  to  see  the  new  reel. 
On  arriving  at  the  friend's  house,  they  were  told  that  he 
was  out.  Davidson  expressed  a  good  deal  of  disappoint- 
ment, and  said  that  he  had  told  his  friend  particularly  that 
he  would  be  there.  On  their  way  back  to  Jones's  store, 
they  passed  a  large  drinking  house. 

"  Come,  let  us  have  a  drink  on  the  strength  of  this  dis- 
appointment," said  Davidson,  taking  hold  of  his  compan- 
ion's arm,  and  drawing  him  towards  the  entrance.  Jones 
did  not  hesitate.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  a  glass 
whenever  it  came  in  his  way.  As  they  walked  up  to  the 
bar,  Davidson  gave  the  bar  tender  a  look  of  intelligence, 
which  was  returned. 

"What  will  you  have  Mr.  Jones?" 

"  Almost  any  thing." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  a  glass  of  punch  ?" 

«  That  will  do  exactly." 


40  THEFOUNTAIN. 

"Two  punches,  weak,"  said  Davidson,  to  the  bar 
keeper. 

In  a  very  short  space  of  time  the  Hquor  was  ready ;  in 
a  shorter  space  the  glasses  were  emptied.  The  two  men 
sat  down  and  chatted  awhile,  and  then  walked  away. 
Jones  felt  rather  light-headed  as  he  gained  the  street,  and 
his  knees  were  so  weak  that,  every  now  and  then,  they 
would  knock  against  each  other.  Davidson  bade  him 
good  morning  before  he  reached  his  store.  Jones  walked 
on,  but  at  every  step  he  felt  worse  and  worse,  and  was 
conscious  of  being  unable  to  move  in  a  straight  line.  Soon 
he  began  to  stagger  a  step  or  two  to  the  right,  and  then  to 
the  left.  Instead  of  returning  to  the  store,  he  directed  his 
steps  homeward,  his  power  over  his  muscular  frame 
growing  less  and  less  every  moment. 

In  this  miserable  condition  he  came  in  suddenly  upon 
his  unsuspecting  wife.  She  was  singing  gaily  over  her 
work  when  he  staggered  into  the  room,  like  a  blasting 
spectre.  In  an  instant,  joy  was  turned  into  grief, — the 
heart  that  was  bounding  lightly,  sunk  heavily  in  the  poor 
wife's  bosom.  The  wretched  man  had  just  sufRcient  con- 
sciousness remaining  to  clamber  up  stairs,  and,  aided  by 
his  wife,  take  off  his  boots  and  coat,  and  throw  himself 
upon  a  bed.  From  that  moment  he  became  very  sick,  and 
remained  quite  ill  the  rest  of  the  day  and  all  night. 

While  Mrs.  Jones  sat  a  tearful  watcher  by  the  side  of 
her  husband,  Davidson  was  enjoying  the  oyster  supper  he 
had  won,  and  making  himself  merry  over  the  fall  of  his 
unsuspecting  victim.  It  must  be  said  for  him,  that  to  pro- 
duce the  misery  which  resulted  from  what  he  had  done, 
was  not  his  design.  He  did  not  reflect  upon  consequences. 
He  was  one  of  that  class  of  men  who  are  always  ready  for 
a  practical  joke,  but  have  no  power  of  reahzing  in  their 
own  mind  the  pain  they  often  occasion.  He  was  called  by 
some  a  good-hearted  man ;  because,  whenever  a  case  of 
suffering  came  under  his  notice,  he  would  promptly  empty 


"give    me    My    husband!"  41 

his  pockets.  This  was,  because  what  he  actually  saw- 
reached  his  feelings  at  once,  and  called  fortli  his  sympathies. 
On  his  way  to  the  oyster  supper  he  had  won  at  the  price 
of  a  wife's  happiness  and  an  honest  citizen's  good  standing, 
he  met  a  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  begging.  She 
told  a  pitiable  story  of  poverty.  Her  husband  had  squan- 
dered all  they  possessed,  and  at  last  killed  himself  by  drink. 
This  tale  of  sorrow  and  want  moved  him  deeply ;  he  gave 
her  all  the  money  he  had  with  him,  some  three  or  four 
dollars,  and  sent  her  on  her  way  with  a  lighter  spirit. 

On  the  following  morning,  Jones  was  still  too  much  indis- 
posed to  go  out.  It  was  the  third  day  before  he  was  in  a 
fit  condition  to  resume  his  business,  and  then  he  felt  so 
mortified  that  he  could  hardly  find  courage  enough  to  ven- 
ture on  the  street.  He  knew  that  he  must  have  been  seen 
by  many  persons,  staggering  along  in  a  state  of  intoxica- 
tion. Almost  every  one  he  met,  seemed  to  look  at  him 
with  curious  eyes.  Nearly  all  who  knew  him,  certainly 
did,  for  the  astounding  fact  that  he  had  been  seen  drunk  in 
the  street  spread  from  one  to  another  with  great  rapidity. 

Grieved  and  humbled  at  what  had  occurred,  and  unable 
to  understand  the  reason  why  a  single  glass  should  produce 
such  consequences,  Jones  suffered  deeply.  Two  or  three 
of  his  best  customers,  hearing  of  what  had  occurred,  and 
believing,  from  the  way  it  was  told  them,  that  he  was 
getting  into  idle,  dissipated  habits,  ceased  to  deal  with  him. 
Most  men,  when  they  do  an  act  that  injures  another,  seek 
self-justification  by  talking  about  it,  and  giving  reasons  for 
what  they  have  done,  thus  doing  ten-fold  the  original 
injury.  This  was  the  case  with  these  customers  of  Jones's ; 
each  withdrew  one  or  two  more.  But  this  would  not  have 
been  a  permanent  injury,  had  there  been  no  further  lapse 
from  sobriety  on  the  part  of  Jones.  There  would  have 
been  none,  if  Davidson  had  been  content  to  let  him  alone. 
But  this  he  was  not.  The  success  of  his  first  two  attempts 
to  trick  him  into  intoxication,  had  been  so  entire  without 

4  * 


42  tiiefountAin. 

creating  suspicion  in  the  mind  of  his  victim,  that  he  deter- 
mined to  see  how  often  he  could  accomplish  the  same 
result. 

Sad  to  relate,  once  a  week,  for  the  next  four  weeks,  as 
he  had  boasted  he  would  do,  did  Davidson  tempt,  or  rather 
deceive,  the  weak  and  unsuspecting  young  man  into  over- 
indulgence to  the  extent  of  drunkenness.  The  consequen- 
ces that  followed,  were  of  the  worst  kind.  Jones  not  only 
fell  in  the  public,  but  in  his  own  estimation,  far  lower  than 
the  actual  circumstances  of  the  case,  had  they  been  fully 
known,  need  have  justified.  He  had  not  much  strength 
of  character  to  sustain  him  in  any  trial  or  difficulty,  and  he 
now  sunk  down  almost  powerless.  The  loss  of  custom, 
added  to  the  shame  he  felt,  and  the  distress  of  his  wife, 
whom  he  tenderly  loved,  completely  broke  him  down,  and 
sad  to  relate,  caused  him  to  resort  to  the  one  only  course  of 
ruin — drink.  Before,  he  drank  with  a  friend,  or,  occasion- 
ally, when  he  felt  thirsty  for  the  gratification  of  his  appe- 
tite : — But  now  he  turned  his  steps  to  the  drinking  house 
as  a  means  of  relief  from  harrowing  self-consciousness. 

Now  and  then  he  would  rally  himself,  and  resolve  to 
break  the  fetters  that  were  beginning  to  bind  themselves  so 
tightly  around  him  as  to  be  felt.  But  when  his  mind  was 
clear  to  think,  so  many  self  reproaches  forced  themselves 
upon  him,  in  consequence  of  the  downward  aspect  of  every 
thing,  that  he  would,  in  despair,  seek  the  fatal  cup  again, 
and  drown  all  in  oblivion. 

Scarcely  a  year  passed  before  his  store  was  sold  out  by 
his  creditors,  so  rapidly  had  his  course  tended  dowuAvards. 
In  the  same  week  Davidson,  whose  wife  had  died  a  short 
time  previously,  was  also  sold  out  by  his  creditors.  Not- 
withstanding his  vaunt  of  strength,  the  cup  to  which  he 
resorted  so  often  had  in  it  a  spell  more  potent  than  his 
boasted  will.  His  business  was  neglected  as  well  as  the 
business  of  Jones,  and  both  together  were  thrown  upon  the 
world  with  no  means  of  support  beyond  their  mere  ability 


"give    me    Mr    husband!"  43 

to  earn  it ;  and  this  was  not  much,  when  their  habits  were 
taken  into  account. 

Davidson's  downward  tendency  was,  after  this,  more 
rapid  than  Jones's.  He  connected  himself  with  a  second 
rate  grade  of  gamblers,  and  in  this  way  sustained  himself 
But  the  insatiable  desire  for  drink  that  burned  within  him, 
and  which  received  full  gratification,  soon  rendered  him 
unfit  for  his  new  vocation.  The  cards  and  dice  ceased  to 
be  fortunate  in  his  hands.  He  had  no  more  skill.  From 
this  time  his  external  appearance  rapidly  changed.  His 
clothes  became  worn,  thread-bare,  and  dilapidated.  Few 
of  his  old  friends  and  companions  cared  to  know  him  upon 
the  street. 

Two  years  of  privation  and  wretchedness  followed  the 
breaking  up  of  Jones's  business.  His  wife  laboured  dil- 
igently with  her  hands,  and  managed  the  little  income  thus 
obtained,  and  the  occasional  supplies  her  husband  brought 
in,  with  the  utmost  prudence.  But  prudence  could  not 
keep  out  the  gaunt  monster  want.  She  suifered  much  ex- 
ternally as  well  as  internally.  Amid  all  this,  she  let  no 
word  of  reproach  pass  her  lips,  nor  did  her  husband  ever 
speak  to  her  harshly.  By  every  means  in  her  power  she 
sought  to  draw  him  back  from  his  fatal  besetment :  to  lift 
him  up,  and  help  him  to  find  a  power  of  resistance  in  him- 
self She  wept  and  prayed  with  him  and  for  him,  but  all 
availed  not.  Down,  down,  down,  he  went,  with  an  ap- 
palling rapidity. 

One  night  he  staid  away  later  than  usual.  When  he  put 
on  his  hat  after  supper  she  begged  him  not  to  go  out,  but 
to  remain  at  home  and  keep  her  company. 

"  It  is  so  lonely  here,  and  you  stay  so  late  sometimes," 
she  said,  laying  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  while  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears, — "  Do  'nt  go  Henry." 

"  I  wont  stay  but  a  httle  while,"  he  replied — "  I  prom- 
ised to  go  some  where  this  evening,  and  I  must  go ;  but  I 
will  be  home  soon." 


44  THEFOUNTAIN. 

"  I  wish  you  would  'nt,go/'  urged  liis  wife.  I  have  a 
strange  feeling.     Something  might  happen  to  you." 

"  What  can  happen?" 

"  I  do  'nt  know,  but  I  feel  dreadfully.  You  will  stay 
home  with  me,  wont  you  ?" 

"  I  can 't,  to  night,  Sally,  but  I  will  be  home  in  an  hour 
at  most." 

"  You  are  certain  of  that  ?" 

"Oh  yes.  I  will  be  sure  to  be  home."  And  Jones 
turned  away  and  hurried  from  the  house. 

An  hour  went  slowly  by,  but  Jones  did  not  appear  at  its 
expiration.  His  wife  had  not  really  expected  him  so  soon, 
notwithstanding  his  promise  ;  and  yet,  as  the  hour  drew  to 
a  close,  she  could  not  help  looking  for  his  return,  nor  help 
a  feeling  of  disappointment  when  she  found  it  delayed 
beyond  that  time. 

Much  longer  than  an  hour  did  she  have  to  wait. 

When  Jones  left  his  home,  it  was  his  intention  to  return 
as  he  had  promised.  He  meant  to  go  to  a  favorite  drink- 
ing house,  where  he  had  engaged  to  meet  an  old  crony  and 
take  a  glass  and  a  game  of  dominoes  with  him.  When  a 
short  distance  from  his  home  he  met  Davidson,  whom  he 
had  not  seen  for  some  time.  His  old  acquaintance  looked 
even  more  dilapidated  than  himself. 

"  Come  my  boy,"  said  Davidson,  after  they  had  shaken 
hands,  "let  us  take  a  good  stiff  glass  for  old  acquaintance 
sake." 

To  a  proposal  of  this  kind,  Jones  had  no  opposition  to 
make.  Nothing  could  be  more  agreeable  to  his  feelings. 
The  two  men  entered  a  third  class  tavern,  and  Davidson 
ordered  the  liquor.  After  a  glass  had  warmed  up  their 
feelings,  Davidson  remembered  how  he  had  on  a  former 
occasion  played  off  his  tricks  upon  his  unsuspecting  friend, 
and  the  desire  to  do  so  again  took  hold  of  him.  It  was  such 
good  fun,  and  he  liked  fun. 

"Jones,"  he  said,  with  an  exulting  smile,  "do  you  re- 


"give    me    my    husband!"  45 

member  that  drinking  party,  where  you  got  drunk  before 
any  body  else  began  to  feel  light  in  the  upper  story  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  do  confoundedly  well.  I  never  yet  could  make 
out  that  matter.  I  am  sure  I  took  only  a  single  glass,  or, 
at  best,  two." 

"  That 's  a  fact." 

"  How  then  did  I  get  so  stupidly  drunk  ?" 

«  Ha !  ha !     Do  'nt  you  know  ?" 

"No.     Do  you?" 

"Yes— ha!  ha!" 

"  How  was  it  ?" 

"  You  had  a  double-shotter." 

"  How  could  that  be  ?" 

"  I  bribed  the  bar-keeper  to  make  your  glass  as  strong  as 
three  ordinary  glasses." 

"  You  are  joking." 

"  It 's  a  fact." 

"  Why  did  you  do  that  ?" 

"  Oh !  for  the  fun  of  the  thing.  I  wanted  to  see  how 
you  would  look  drunk." 

"  That  was  too  bad.  If  you  did  it  once,  it  was  not  the 
only  time.  I  was  drunk  four  or  five  times  in  as  many 
weeks." 

"  I  know  it." 

"  And  now  I  remember,  it  was  always  after  having  been 
in  your  company." 

"Certainly  it  was.  I  made  a  bet  that  you  would  be 
drunk  once  a  week  for  four  weeks,  and  I  won  my  bet." 

Jones  sat  thoughtful  for  nearly  a  minute.  He  was  re- 
calling the  past  as  distinctly  as  possible.  Before  he  made 
any  reply,  he  saw  clearly  the  whole  matter,  and  felt  a 
thrilling  consciousness  that  he  owed  his  ruin  to  the  man 
who  sat  over  against  him  at  the  table.  With  this  conscious- 
ness, came  up  the  image  of  his  wife  who  had  suffered  even 
more  than  himself — his  pale-faced,  patient,  ever-toiUng 
wife. — He  also  thought  of  what  he  was  when  the  tempter 


46  THEFOUNTAIN. 

came  with  his  insidious  wiles  and  lured  him  to  ruin  ere  a 
suspicion  of  danger  had  crossed  his  mind.  These  remem- 
brances fevered  him. — An  honest  indignation  against  Da- 
vidson burned  in  his  bosom. 

"  It  was  the  act  of  a  devil !"  he  said,  lifting  his  eyes  to 
those  of  his  companion,  and  looking  at  him  with  a  scowl 
of  anger. 

"  You  are  jesting,"  returned  Davidson, — 

"  I  never  jest,"  replied  Jones,  bitterly, — "  I  leave  jesting 
for  such  as  you." 

"  You  had  better  take  care,  my  lark,"  said  Davidson, — 
"  I  never  allow  any  man  to  offer  me  an  insult." 

"  A  base  coward  like  you  dare  not  resent  one  !  None 
but  a  base  coward  could  be  guilty  of  conduct  so  dastardly 
as  yours  has  been.     You  are  not  fit  to  live." 

Jones  had  become  greatly  excited.  He  leaned  over  the 
table  and  shook  his  fist  in  the  face  of  his  companion,  who 
was  a  larger  and  stronger  man  than  he.  This  was  more 
than  Davidson  could  well  bear,  partially  excited  by  drink 
as  he  was.  On  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  he  struck  Jones 
on  the  head  with  his  clenched  hand,  and  dashed  him  to  the 
floor.  But  Jones  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant,  and  sprang 
over  the  table  and  upon  his  antagonist  with  the  agility  of 
a  cat.  A  wild  struggle  ensued  which  continued  for  some 
two  or  three  minutes,  when  Davidson  got  himself  into  a 
position  to  deal  his  antagonist  a  fearful  blow  on  one  of  his 
temples.  The  blow  was  given  with  all  his  strength,  and 
laid  his  victim  insensible  on  the  floor.  By  this  time  half  a 
dozen  persons  had  gained  the  scene  of  strife.  Jones  was 
raised  up  and  efforts  used  to  restore  him  to  animation.  His 
face  was  shockingly  bruised,  and  cut  in  several  places,  and 
one  or  two  ribs  were  broken. — The  temple  upon  which 
Davidson  had  dealt  so  terrible  a  blow,  was  deeply  indented, 
and,  it  was  feared,  the  bone  fractered. 

After  trying  for  over  half  an  hour  to  restore  him  without 
eflect,  a  physican  was  sent  for,  who  dressed  his  wounds 


"give    me    my    husband!"  47 

properly,  and  bandaged  the  broken  ribs,  after  having,  by 
means  of  bleeding,  revived  the  almost  suspended  action  of 
his  lieart.     But  consciousness  did  not  follow. 

In  this  state,  Jones  was  conveyed  home  about  eleven 
o'clock  that  night.  His  wife,  feeling  weary  and  troubled, 
had  lain  aside  her  work,  and  was  leaning  her  head  upon 
the  table  at  which  she  had  been  sitting,  when  she  was 
startled  by  the  noise  of  a  crowd  upon  the  pavement,  just  at 
her  door.  She  had  barely  time  to  rise  to  her  feet  and  as- 
sume a  listening  attitude,  when  there  came  a  loud  knock  at 
the  door,  which  was  immediately  afterwards  thrown  open, 
and  the  body  of  her  husband  borne  in  by  three  men,  who 
laid  it  upon  the  floor  and  retired  as  quickly  as  possible,  and 
before  she  had  time  to  make  any  inquiries. 

So  shocked  was  the  poor  wife  by  this  sudden  apparition, 
that  she  staggered  back  a  few  paces,  and  fell  upon  the  floor 
as  insensible  as  her  husband.  How  long  she  thus  lay,  she 
knew  not.  When  the  life-blood  again  flowed  warmly 
through  her  veins,  the  first  sounds  that  met  her  ears  was 
the  loud  screaming  of  her  babe,  and  the  voice  of  her  hus- 
band endeavouring  to  quiet  its  distress.  Quickly  rising  up, 
she  found  her  husband  upon  the  bed,  trying  to  pacify  the 
babe  that  lay  beside  him. 

"  Oh  Henry  I"  she  said  staggering,  rather  than  walking 
up  to  the  bed  side — "  What  has  happened  to  you  ?  I  have 
been  terribly  shocked !"  And  she  pressed  both  hands 
against  her  temples. 

"Take  the  child,  Sally,"  Jones  replied  in  a  feeble  voice 
and  I  will  tell  you  all." 

In  a  little  while  the  babe  was  nestling  quietly  on  its 
mother's  bosom.  Then  speaking  with  much  eflbrt,  the  un- 
happy man  related  to  his  wife  all  that  had  occurred  during 
the  evening,  dwelling  with  much  feeling  upon  what  David- 
son had  confessed  about  having  deceived  him  in  the 
strength  of  the  liquors  he  drank,  which  brought  him  origin- 
ally into  shame  and  disgrace,  and  laid  the  foundation  for  his 


48  THEPOUNTAIN. 

final  overthrow  and  ruin.  On  concluding  his  narrative,  he 
wept  and  moaned  like  a  distressed  child.  His  wife  sought 
to  comfort  him,  and  spoke  of  happier  and  brighter  days  to 
come.  But  he  shook  his  head  mournfully.  "  No  Sally  ! 
There  are  no  brighter  days  for  us,"  he  said.  "  I  have 
brought  a  curse  upon  my  wife  and  children,  and  now  I 
cannot  remove  it."     And  again  he  sobbed  bitterly. 

The  wretched  man  was  right.  It  was  too  late  to  undo 
what  had  already  been  done.  Instead  of  recovering  from 
the  injuries  he  had  received,  he  gradually  sunk  under  them, 
and  died  in  about  ten  days,  from  inflammation  caused  by 
one  of  his  broken  ribs  having  lacerated,  severely,  the  flesh 
over  the  point  of  the  fracture. 

The  deep  contrition  of  her  husband  caused  a  lively  hope 
to  spring  up  in  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Jones.  She  believed, 
firmly,  that  the  day  of  his  infatuation  was  over,  and  that, 
when  he  recovered,  he  would  go  forth  a  changed  man.  So 
fully  was  she  satisfied  of  this,  that  she  dreamed  of  it  by 
night,  and  made  it,  by  day,  the  foundation  of  many  an  air- 
built  castle.  Suddenly,  and  with  a  stunning  violence,  came, 
within  a  few  hours  of  his  death,  the  fearful  announcement 
from  a  physician,  that  her  husband  could  not  live  but  for  a 
very  short  space  of  time.  The  effect  was  melancholy  in  the 
extreme.  With  the  last  expiring  sigh  of  her  husband  fled, 
partially,  the  reason  of  poor  Sarah  Jones.  Depraved  and 
miserable  as  he  had  been,  she  had  loved  him  tenderly,  and 
amid  all  the  privations  she  suffered,  ever  cherished  the 
hope  of  seeing  him  yet  lift  his  head  as  a  man.  This  hope 
reached  its  climax  during  the  illness  that  followed  his  en- 
counter with  Davidson, — the  revulsion  occasioned  by  his 
death,  sudden  and  unexpected,  was  more  than  she  could 
bear.  Her  reason  was  dethroned.  But  the  abberation 
was  not  so  marked  as  to  be  alarming,  or  to  cause  any  one . 
to  interfere  with  her  freedom.  She  worked  with  her  nee- 
dle, as  usual,  and  in  this  way  supported  herself,  but  there 
were  times  when  she  would  take  her  two  children,  one  a 


"give    me    my    husband!"  49 

babe  in  her  arms,  and  the  other  but  little  over  two  years 
old,  and  wander  away,  sometimes  two  or  three  miles  from 
the  city.  Into  every  tavern  that  came  in  her  way,  she 
would  go  and  ask  if  her  husband  were  there,  so  earnestly 
that  all  who  did  not  know  her  actually  believed  her  in 
search  of  a  living  but  drunken  husband.  This  state  would 
continue  for  a  few  days,  and  then  she  would  return  home 
and  quietly  resume  her  duties. 

Davidson,  after  the  rencontre  with  Jones,  deemed  it  an 
act  of  prudence  to  leave  the  city.  He  regretted  the  conse- 
quences of  his  angry  contest  with  a  much  weaker  man. 
But  the  thing  was  done  and  could  'nt  be  helped,  and  he 
did  'nt  feel  disposed  to  give  himself  any  very  great  deal  of 
trouble  about  it.  When,  however,  he  heard  of  his  victim's 
death,  he  was  not  only  alarmed  lest  serious  consequences 
should  fall  upon  him,  but  troubled  with  no  very  light  self- 
reproaches.  He  did  not,  however,  mend  his  ways ;  but 
continued  his  downward  course  of  dissipation.  Nearly  a 
year  after  the  death  of  Jones,  he  returned  to  the  neighbour- 
hood of  the  place  where  he  had  formerly  lived,  and  spent  a 
day  or  two  at  a  public  house. 

One  afternoon,  near  the  time  of  sun-set,  Davidson  was 
standing  at  the  bar  with  a  glass  in  his  hand,  when  he  saw 
from  the  window  a  woman  slowly  approaching  the  house, 
bearing  one  child  in  her  arms  and  leading  another.  "  Who 
is  that  ?"  he  said  to  the  bar-keeper, — 

"  That  ?  Oh,  that  is  the  woman  who  is  looking  for  her 
drunken  husband,"  replied  the  bar-keeper, — "  I  do  'nt 
know  who  she  is ;  but  she  comes  this  way,  now  and  then, 
looking  after  her  husband,  but  I  do  'nt  believe  he  visits  our 
house ;  if  he  does,  she  has  never  yet  caught  him  here.  I 
think  she  had  better  stay  at  home." 

"  That 's  it,  is  it  ?"  returned  Davidson.  "  She  loolcs 
young  to  have  a  drunken  husband.  I  '11  go  out  and  give 
her  something.     No  doubt  she  needs  it — I  never  saw  a 

5 


50  THETOUNTAIN. 

wife  with  a  drunken  husband,  who  did  not.  Thank  hea- 
ven, I  have  no  wife  !" 

Saying  this,  Davidson  stepped  out,  still  holding  his  glass 
in  his  hand.     The  woman  had  nearly  gained  the  door. 

"  Here,  my  good  woman,  take  that :  it  will  help  buy 
your  little  ones  some  bread,"  said  Davidson,  reaching  to- 
wards her  a  piece  of  money. 

"  No,  keep  your  money  !"  she  replied  in  a  quick  voice, 
— "  I  want  my  husband !  Give  me  my  husband  !  Give  me 
back  my  husband." 

The  veil  instantly  fell  from  the  wretched  man's  eyes; 
the  woman  was  no  longer  a  stranger.  Sally  Jones  stood 
before  him  and  demanded  her  husband.  He  staggered 
back  a  few  paces,  the  glass  fell  from  his  hand ;  he  kept 
from  falling  with  difficulty.  That  mournful  voice  thrilled 
every  nerve, — The  woman  seemed  not  to  notice  the  effect 
of  her  words,  but  went  past  him,  and  entering  the  bar 
room,  enquired  for  her  husband.  The  simple  answer  that 
he  was  not  there,  satisfied  her.  She  turned  away  and  left 
the  house. 

"  Why  do  'nt  you  give  that  woman  back  her  husband  ?" 
said  the  bar-keeper,  affecting  a  stern  voice  and  air  as  Da- 
vidson re-entered  the  room.  He  had  heard  the  earnest 
appeal  that  had  been  made,  and  thought  that  it  afforded  a 
good  subject  for  a  jest. 

"  It  is  not  in  my  power,"  replied  Davidson,  in  a  serious 
voice.     "  I  cannot  call  back  the  dead." 

"  Is  her  husband  dead?"  asked  the  bar-keeper,  his  man- 
ner changing.     "  I  did  not  know  that." 

"  Yes.     He  has  been  dead  for  more  than  a  year." 

"  I  thought  you  did  'nt  know  her." 

"  Nor  did  I,  until  I  went  out." 

«  Who  is  she  ?" 

*'  Her  name  is  Jones." 

"  The  one  whose  husband  was  killed  by  a  man  named 
Davidson  ?" 


"give    me    mt    husband!"  51 

"  The  same,"  was  replied  in  as  firm  a  voice  as  it  was 
possible  to  assume. 

"  Indeed  !  Poor  woman !  It  has  set  her  crazy." 

"  So  it  seems." 

Davidson  did  not  remain  long  at  the  tavern  after  this ; 
nor  long  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  city  in  which  Mrs. 
Jones  lived.  He  went  off  to  the  west,  haunted  with  the 
image  of  the  wife  whose  husband  he  had  murdered,  body 
and  soul.  He  drank  no  more.  With  one  firm  resolution 
he  abandoned  forever  the  maddening  cup.  As  far  as  is  in 
his  power  he  is  striving  to  make  some  return  of  good  for 
the  evil  he  has  done.  Every  month,  Mrs.  Jones,  who  no 
longer  suffers  to  the  extent  that  she  did  from  mental  ab- 
eration,  receives  about  twenty  dollars  in  a  blank  envelope 
from  an  unknown  source.  This  has  come,  regularly,  for 
years.     The  reader  may  easily  guess  from  whom. 


TO  THE  SONS  OF  TEMPERANCE. 

BY   FANNY   FORRESTER. 

On,  brothers,  on  !  though  the  night  be  gone, 

And  the  morning  glory  breaking, 

Though  your  toils  be  blest,  ye  may  not  rest, 

For  danger 's  ever  waking. 

Ye  have  spread  your  sail,  ye  have  braved  the  gale, 

And  a  calm  o'er  the  sea  is  creeping ; 

But  I  know  by  the  sky,  that  danger 's  nigh — 

There 's  yet  no  time  for  sleeping  ! 

Still  dingy  walls  nurse  midnight  brawls ; 
Up  from  the  vale  is  wreathing 
A  fatal  cloud,  the  soul  to  shroud, 
While  man  its  poison 's  breathing. 
Still  vice  is  seen  in  glittering  sheen, 
In  the  ruby  bubble  laughing ; 
But  Death  his  shrine,  has  reared  in  wine, 
And  the  young  blood  he  is  quaffing. 

When  the  beaker's  brim  with  rust  is  dim, 
Because  no  lip  will  press  it, 
When  the  worm  is  dead,  which  ever  fed 
On  the  heart  that  dared  caress  it, 
When  the  gay  false  light  of  the  eye  so  bright 
Be  too  true  for  thought  to  smother, 
52 


TO      THE      SONS      OF      TEMPERANCE.  53 

When  the  art  be  lost,  hither  demon  tossed, 
And  man  tempt  not  his  brother — 

Then,  peaceful  and  blest,  from  toil  ye  may  rest ; 

Else,  rest  is  but  in  heaven  ; — 

For  shame  still  lies  in  sad  wet  eyes, 

Still  hearts  with  wo  are  riven. 

Then  brothers  on  !  though  the  night  be  gone, 

And  the  morning  glory  breaking. 

Though  your  toils  be  blest,  ye  may  not  rest, 

For  danger,  danger 's  waking ! 


AGNES. 

A  STORY  OF  REVOLUTIONARY  TIMES. 

BY   MRS.   C.   M.   KIRKLAND. 

The  state  of  society  in  rural  life  in  our  country,  just  before 
the  breaking  out  of  the  revolutionary  war,  was  one  of 
plain,  hospitable,  almost  primitive  simplicity  and  heartiness. 
The  cities,  then,  as  now,  aped  foreign  manners,  and  sacri- 
ficed much  real  comfort  and  respectability,  in  the  vain 
attempt  to  imitate  English  luxury  and  aristocratic  distinc- 
tion :  but  the  country  was  as  yet,  unspoiled  by  such  degra- 
ding folly,  and  perhaps  the  state  of  New  Jersey,  in  partic- 
ular, might  be  cited  as  retaining  an  unambitious,  simple 
mode  of  living,  at  once  a  proof  of  the  good  sense  of  her 
people,  and  a  security  for  their  substantial  prosperity. 
People  of  good  property  resided  on  their  farms,  or  pursued 
the  callings  by  which  their  fortunes  had  been  acquired, 
without  a  thought  of  pushing  away  the  ladder  that  they 
might  figure  upon  the  dizzy  eminence,  forgetting  the  means 
by  which  it  was  attained.  Sons  and  daughters  were  por- 
tioned from  the  family  estate,  but  they  too  had  been  imbued 
with  the  honest  pride  which  loves  to  live  on  land  long 
owned  by  one's  fathers;  and  instead  of  flying  off"  to  the 
cities  to  spend  all  in  heartless  show,  they  settled  about  the 
homestead,  thus  forming  a  society  who  possessed,  perhaps, 
as  many  of  the  external  materials  for  quiet  happiness,  as 
any  on  earth.  Few  of  them  could  be  found  among  those 
Americans  whose  extravagant  style  of  living,  reported  in 
54 


; 


AGNES.  55 

England  by  the  officers  on  their  return,  encouraged  the 
British  government  to  think  that  such  opulence  would  bear 
heavier  burdens.  They  adhered  to  a  republican  simplicity, 
at  once  prudent  and  dignified ;  and  their  children,  secured 
from  many  of  the  temptations  of  life,  grew  up  among  their 
own  kindred,  honest,  affectionate  and  respectable. 

This  state  of  things,  pleasant  as  it  was,  and  advantageous 
in  many  respects,  had  yet  its  drawback.  The  quiet,  the 
easy  circumstances,  the  absence  of  excitement,  led  to  much 
social  meeting,  in  neighbourhoods,  and  these  meetings, — 
alas !  that  things  good  and  pleasant  in  themselves,  should 
so  often  be  the  source,  natural  or  accidental,  of  terrible  evils 
— these  were  too  convivial.  What  was  called  intemper- 
ance, was  not  common,  but  it  was  not  then  so  well  under- 
stood what  ivas  intemperance.  When  a  man  of  standing 
in  society,  was  observed  to  neglect  his  affairs,  and  spend  his 
whole  time  in  what  he  had  begun  merely  as  a  recreation, 
he  was  said  to  "  live  rather  too  fast."  When  his  property 
was  mortgaged  and  brought  to  the  hammer,  his  "  misfor- 
tunes" were  said  to  be  the  cause;  and  when  he  went 
faster  than  ever  the  down-hill  road  after  this,  men  shook 
their  heads,  and  lamented  that  "  trouble"  had  driven  him  to 
drink.  The  philosophy  of  the  whole  matter  was  by  no 
means  so  plain,  as  it  has  become  in  our  day,  since  volumes, 
nay  libraries,  have  been  written,  to  expose  the  insidious 
wiles  of  that  "enemy  which  men  put  into  their  mouths,  to 
steal  away  their  brains."  Each  new  instance  was  consi- 
dered and  accounted  for  by  itself,  singly,  and  not  as  coming 
under  one  great  general  law,  and  good  men  went  on  with- 
out fear,  unwarned  by  the  melancholy  cases  which  met 
their  view  occasionally,  and  quite  sure  that  the  exhilaration 
and  good-fellowship  which  made  them  prize  the  cheerful 
glass,  need  not  be  productive  of  any  thing  but  happiness. 

This  was  the  judgment  of  those  who  were  interested  in 
the  matter,  more  than  they  would  have  cared  to  acknow- 
ledge.   Among  women,  excluded  as  they  are  from  all  par- 


56  THEFOUNTAIN. 

ticipation  in  the  conviviality  which  leads  astray  so  many  of 
the  stronger  sex,  a  clearer  and  more  rational  view  early 
prevailed.  They  experienced  not  the  tempting  pleasure,  but 
they  observed  the  next  day's  depression  or  irritability,  and 
they  counted  the  cost.  But  hospitality,  and  hearty  good 
humour,  and  reconciliation,  and  farewells,  and  welcomes, 
and  housewarmings,  and  births,  and  marriages,  and  even 
death  had  come  to  be  so  associated  with  the  use  of  strong 
liquors,  that  it  seemed  a  vain  attempt  to  bring  reason  to 
bear  upon  so  formidable  an  array  of  opposition  ;  and  many 
mourned  in  silence  over  what  they  had  not  courage  to 
oppose  openly. 

The  family  of  Manning,  was  one  of  the  most  wealthy  in 
its  neighbourhood ;  owning  mill-seats,  and  other  valuable 
property  on  the  Delaware,  and  living  in  all  the  peace,  com- 
fort and  abundance  which  so  favorable  a  situation  afforded. 
Mr.  Manning  was  a  widower,  with  four  children,  of  whom 
Agnes,  the  heroine  of  our  simple  story,  was  the  youngest. 
She  was  treated  as  the  "baby"  and  pet  of  all  the  house, 
and  had  been  her  mother's  darling,  and  the  constant  com- 
panion of  the  heavy  hours  of  her  decline.     Whether  owing 
to  natural  temperament,  or  to  the  circumstance  of  having 
been  inured  to  sad  thoughts,  at  the  most  impressible  age, 
she  was  a  serious  child,  given  to  quiet  amusements,  rather 
than  to  gay  sports,  and  fond  of  playing  the  little  handmaid 
to  her  father,  when  her  sisters  were   engaged  with  their 
guests.     As  she   grew  older,  more   decided  elements   of 
character  began  to   display  themselves,  and  her  brother 
and  sisters  were  not  always  quite  pleased  with  her  remarks 
upon  what  she  saw  and  heard  in  the  parlor.     She  was  so 
sweet  tempered,  however,  and  always  so  grieved  when  she 
found  she  had  offended,  that  their  resentment  was  but  short 
lived,  and  they  could  not  but  confess  that  her  good  sense 
was  often  in  the  right,  even  when  it  reflected  severely  upon 
themselves. 

It  so  happened,  however,  that  speaking  was  not  all  that 


AGNES.  57 

Agnes  felt  bound  to  do,  touching  certain  practices  which 
fell  daily  under  her  observation.  The  young  people  had  a 
great  deal  of  company,  and  the  fashion  of  the  time  prescri- 
bed that  wine  or  punch,  with  cake  and  other  refreshments, 
should  be  frequently  handed  them.  This  the  primitive 
manners  of  that  part  of  the  country,  allowed  to  be  per- 
formed in  person  by  the  daughters  of  the  house,  who  never 
thought  of  disdaining  what  was  considered  an  honorable 
office  by  princesses,  and  noble  ladies  of  old.  But  our  little 
Agnes,  now  fifteen,  rebelled  resolutely  against  this  part  of 
her  duty.  "  I  will  do  any  thing  else  for  you,"  she  said,  "  but 
I  never  will  hand  wine  or  spirits  to  Philip  Lybrand,  or 
John  Reed,  who  love  them  too  well  already ;  or  to  any  of 
the  other  young  men  who  come  here,  all  of  whom  become 
noisy  and  foolish  after  drinking." 

Here  was  an  emeute  !  such  a  thing  was  never  heard  of! 
Agnes's  pride  had  come  to  a  pretty  pass  !  And  a  formal 
complaint  was  made  to  Mr.  Manning,  that  Agnes,  the 
youngest,  whose  place  it  was  to  wait  upon  the  eldest,  re- 
fused absolutely  this  part  of  the  family  duty. 

"  Why  what  does  this  mean,  Aggy,"  said  the  old  gentle- 
man, "  why  do  you  set  up  to  be  wiser  than  every  body 
else  ?" 

" Oh  Father  !  I  do  not,"  said  the  weeping  girl,  "but  the 
more  I  see  of  this  drinking  in  company,  the  more  I  am  sure 
it  is  not  good ;  and  I  cannot  have  any  thing  to  do  with  it." 

It  was  quite  a  new  idea  to  the  father,  as  well  as  to  the 
younger  members  of  the  family  ;  but  finding  Agnes  really 
sincere  in  her  objection,  the  point  was  dropped  after  a 
while,  although  she  was  subjected  to  unsparing  ridicule  for 
her  squeamishness.  Perhaps  this  very  ridicule  contributed 
to  fasten  her  attention  upon  the  subject,  and  to  bring  the 
more  strongly  to  her  notice  the  consequences  of  the  prevail- 
ing practice.  Certain  it  is,  that  she  withdrew  herself  more 
and  more  from  the  gay  society  which  frequented  her 
father's  house,  and  would  often  steal  away  from  the  noisy 


58  THEFOUNTAIN. 

mirth  too  often  prevailing  there,  and,  pushing  her  Httle 
batteau  out  on  the  calm  bosom  of  the  Delaware,  sit  in 
tranquil  silence,  enjoying  the  pure  moonlight,  while  the 
songs  and  laughter  which  reached  her  ear  would  but 
awaken  a  sigh  of  regret. 

"  How  can  they,"  she  would  mentally  exclaim,  "prefer 
such  amusements  to  this  delicious  evening.  This  soft  shade, 
the  glassy  water,  the  song  of  the  whippoorwill  and  the 
mocking-bird — what  a  contrast  do  they  present  to  the 
heated  room,  the  noise,  the  excitement  within.  Oh  my 
brother  !  would  I  could  persuade  you  to  try  a  better  way 
of  passing  your  evenings ;  but  while  my  sisters  think  as 
you  do,  that  all  this  belongs  to  a  life  of  pleasure,  I  have  no 
hope !" 

Let  us  not  be  mistaken  in  our  description  of  Agnes. 
We  would  not  represent  her  as  a  self-sufficient  sermonizer, 
who  wearies  and  disgusts  where  she  would  instruct.  We 
would  but  describe  the  mental  exercises  of  a  young  girl, 
who  had  been  able  to  perceive  evils  which  she  had  no 
power  to  remedy,  and  who  could  only  act  negatively,  in 
influencing  those  she  loved.  That  she  did  influence  them, 
in  her  quiet  way,  time  afterwards  showed,  but  for  the 
present  she  saw  nothing  encouraging. 

Agnes,  without  being  a  beauty,  grew  up  a  very  charm- 
ing girl,  and  her  strong  good  sense  and  right  principle, 
joined  to  uncommonly  gentle  manners  and  a  most  bene- 
volent heart,  secured  for  her  many  friends,  and  gained 
respect  for  her  opinions,  however  "ultra"  they  seemed 
at  that  day.  She  had  plenty  of  admirers,  too,  but  her 
manner  was  not  calculated  to  inspire  any  of  them  with 
the  hope  that  he  had  made  an  impression  upon  her  heart. 
Her  sisters  married  and  settled  not  far  from  home.  The 
eldest,  Elinor,  married  the  handsome,  dashing  Philip 
Lybrand,  the  son  of  one  of  the  rich  men  of  the  county, 
who  gave  him  at  once  a  fine  farm,  with  every  thing  that 
a  farmer  could  desire.     Elinor  Manning  had  made  one 


AGNES.  59 

of  the  first  matches  in  the  country,  and  she  was  a  proud 
and  happy  woman.  She  remembered  what  Agnes  had 
said  of  Phihp  Lybrand,  and  reminded  her  of  it  jestingly, 
but  assured  her  that  she  would  not  tell  Philip.  Agnes 
was  painfully  embarrassed,  for  subsequent  observation 
had  but  served  to  confirm  her  impression  as  to  Philip's 
susceptibility  to  the  pleasures  of  wine,  and  she  could  not, 
in  conscience,  say  a  word  in  palliation  of  her  remarks  at 
the  time  of  the  memorable  quarrel  about  offering  the 
ordinary  refreshments  to  her  sisters'  guests.  Her  sister 
Mary  soon  after  married  another  of  the  young  men  who 
had  been  the  constant  visitors  of  her  brothers,  and  though 
not  as  handsomely  settled  as  Elinor,  there  seemed  every 
prospect  of  worldly  comfort  for  the  young  people. 

Agnes  was  now  the  only  sister  at  home,  and  as  such 
the  object  of  much  interest  to  her  brother.  Her  views 
and  habits  were  so  different  from  those  of  the  elder  girls, 
that  William  Manning  complained  not  a  little  of  her  want 
of  congeniality,  while  she,  on  her  own  part,  tried  to  in- 
duce him  to  acquire  a  relish  for  the  quieter  amusements 
in  Avhich  she  found  so  much  satisfaction.  He  was  an 
industrious  young  man,  and  attended  strictly  to  business, 
but,  when  that  was  done,  his  chief  delight  was  in  convi- 
vial society,  and  what  he  termed  frolics,  in  which  he 
found  abundance  of  company. 

"  Come,  Agnes,"  he  would  say,  "you  cannot  refuse  to 
join  our  party  to  the  mountain.  Mary  EUery  and  Jane 
Corwin,  and  all  the  girls  are  going,  and  James  Henry  and 
Norman  Finch,  and  a  certain  other  person  that  you  know 
you  've  a  kindness  for,  if  signs  are  to  be  trusted." 

"  I  will  go,  William,  on  the  old  condition,  that  you  take 
nothing  stronger  than  milk,"  would  Agnes  reply. 

"  Oh !  a  milk  and  water  pic-nic !  horrible !  we  could  n't 
get  a  soul  to  go  on  those  terms.  Even  the  girls  would 
exclaim  against  any  thing  so  stupid  !" 

Yet  parties  were  occasionally  made  to  humor  what 


60  THEFOUNTAIN. 

were  thought  the  prejudices  of  Agnes  Manning,  and  un- 
fortunately these  parties  were  dull  to  all  concerned,  accus- 
tomed as  they  were  to  artificial  stimulus  on  such  occa- 
sions. Agnes  would  exert  herself  to  the  uttermost,  but 
habit  was  too  strong  for  her,  and  she  gradually  gave  up 
any  attempt  to  join  in  the  various  excursions  and  gather- 
ings, and  the  more  especially  as  her  father  had  now  be- 
come very  infirm  and  required  much  of  her  attention. 

The  war  was  now  raging,  and  the  condition  of  the 
army  such  as  called  loudly  on  the  patriotism  of  those 
whose  age  and  circumstances  permitted  their  leaving 
home.  None  responded  more  heartily  to  this  call  than 
many  of  the  young  men  of  New  Jersey,  as  the  annals  of 
that  time  will  testify,  although  the  poison  of  disaffection 
was  not  unfelt  in  the  State.  Wilham  Manning,  with  his 
friends,  John  Reed,  Elliot  Warner  and  Walter  Green- 
wood, prepared  to  join  the  service,  and  they  were  all 
spending  the  evening  before  their  departure  at  Mr.  Man- 
ning's. We  should  premise  that  Greenwood  had  long 
been  a  declared  admirer  of  Agnes,  and  Warner  a  no  less 
sincere  though  as  yet  unavowed  one. 

"  What  shall  we  bring  you,  Agnes?"  said  Greenwood, 
jestingly.  "  I  suppose  there  will  be  no  scalping  in  this 
war,  but  perhaps  we  can  find  some  other  trophy  to  prove 
to  you  that  we  have  smelt  powder." 

Agnes  looked  very  serious.  She  could  not  jest  on  so 
awful  a  subject  as  war ;  but  after  a  pause,  she  said, 

"  If  you  wish  to  bring  me  what  I  should  like  best,  let 
it  be  a  certificate  from  your  commanding  ofiicer,  that  you 
have  drank  only  water  during  the  campaign."  All 
laughed. 

"  Are  you  really  in  earnest  ?"  said  Walter  Greenwood. 
"  Do  you  think  it  would  not  be  ridiculous  for  a  man  to 
decline  doing  as  others  do,  and  to  confine  himself  alto- 
gether to  water  ?  For  my  own  part,  I  care  nothing  for 
those  things,  and  would  just  as  soon  give  them  up  as  not, 


AGNES.  61 

as  far  as  my  own  tastes  are  concerned ;  but  I  own  I 
should  find  it  hard  to  bear  the  everlasting  raillery  which 
I  should  bring  upon  myself  by  such  a  course.  However, 
I  will  try,  and  I  promise  you  a  true  report  when  I  come 
home." 

Agnes  added  some  kind  words  of  persuasion  and  en- 
couragement, and  the  subject  was  dropped  for  the  time. 
Reed  did  not  think  it  worthy  of  a  moment's  consideration, 
and  Warner  seemed  lost  in  thought.  He  lingered,  how- 
ever, until  all  had  departed,  to  say  a  few  words  to  Agnes. 
We  shall  not  tell  what  they  were,  but  we  cannot  deny 
that  there  was  a  good  deal  of  emotion  on  both  sides  ;  and 
although  Agnes  said  nothing  which  she  intended  should 
be  construed  into  encouragement  of  the  modest  suit  of 
Elliot  Warner,  yet  we  ourselves  considered  Greenwood's 
cause  worth  very  little,  after  that  half  hour  on  the  piazza, 
with  the  moon  shining  through  the  vine-hung  trellices, 
and  the  soft-flowing  Delaware  making  gentle  music  as  it 
passed  the  willows  at  the  foot  of  the  garden. 


CHAPTER  II. 

It  is  well  known  that  the  war  against  our  hberties  was 
conducted  in  New  Jersey,  as  well  as  elsewhere,  in  a 
manner  so  barbarous  as  to  be  utterly  irreconcileable  even 
with  that  sanguinary  code  which  men  call  civilized  war- 
fare. The  British  seem  to  have  cherished  an  angry  con- 
tempt for  "  the  rebels,"  whom  they  found  so  difficult  to 
subdue,  which  led  them  to  forget  at  once  what  was  due 
to  their  opponents  and  themselves;  and  their  allies,  red 
men  and  Hessians,  went  even  beyond  them  in  inhuma- 
nity, sparing  neither  age  nor  sex.  Women  of  all  ranks 
were  subject  to  the  most  shameful  indignities,  yet  it  should 

6 


62  THEFOUNTAIN. 

forever  be  remembered  to  their  honour,  that  in  no  in- 
stance was  a  female,  of  whatever  condition,  known  to 
betray  the  concealed  friend,  or  to  aid  an  insolent  enemy. 
They  saw  their  farms  rifled,  their  furniture  destroyed, 
their  houses  in  flames,  without  shrinking  from  their  duty 
in  this  particular ;  and  in  many  a  sad  case  was  the  father, 
the  lover,  the  husband,  the  son,  indebted  for  life  and 
liberty  to  the  dangers  and  sufferings  of  her  he  loved  best. 

In  sacrifices  of  a  quieter  character,  where  no  excite- 
ment was  present  to  sustain  resolution,  the  women  of  the 
Revolution  were  no  less  forward  in  aiding  the  cause  of 
liberty.  When  the  currency  was  so  depreciated  that  sup- 
plies for  the  army  could  not  be  obtained,  individual  exer- 
tion was  taxed  to  supply  the  deficiency ;  and  women 
toiled  at  the  needle,  day  and  night,  and  aroused  the  gen- 
erosity of  all  within  their  influence,  to  supply  the  cloth- 
ing for  want  of  which  their  countrymen  were  suffering. 
From  the  wife  of  the  Commander-in-Chief,  who  set  the 
noble  example,  to  her  who  could  scarce  find  bread  for 
her  children,  all  the  true-hearted  daughters  of  America 
were  engaged  in  the  good  work.  They  encountered  con- 
tempt and  ridicule  in  abundance  from  the  disaffected, 
who  strove  to  show  their  "  loyalty"  by  going  even  be- 
yond the  invaders  in  their  abuse  and  ill-treatment  of  their 
countrymen,  who  were  engaged  in  the  struggle  for 
liberty. 

Agnes  Manning,  whose  father's  whole  heart  was  in  the 
American  cause,  was  among  the  most  active  in  her  sympa- 
thies with  the  suffering  troops.  Her  brother  William 
was  with  the  army,  and  of  that  number  who  lived  en- 
tirely at  their  own  expense  ;  and  he  enlisted  her  feelings 
so  much  by  his  accounts  of  the  destitute  condition  of  his 
men,  that  her  whole  time  was  given  to  this  noble  object, 
and,  with  a  few  young  companions  of  similar  sentiments, 
she  was  foremost  in  the  ranks  of  those  noble  women  who 
felt  deeply  their  country's  woes. 


AGNES.  6S 

Unfortunately,  Philip  Lybrand,  who,  born  to  wealth 
and  consequence,  belonged  naturally  to  the  class  who 
sided  with  the  mother  country,  had  at  this  crisis  become 
one  of  the  most  rabid  of  the  tories,  and  this  circumstance 
produced  an  entire  breach  between  his  family  and  that 
of  his  father-in-law,  and  Agnes  was  cut  off  from  all 
intercourse  with  her  sister  Elinor.  Lybrand's  habits  had 
become  more  and  more  irregular,  so  that  the  marks  of 
excess  were  now  but  too  evident  upon  mind  and  person ; 
and  these  habits  brought  him  into  society  which  was  cal- 
culated to  do  any  thing  but  foster  any  germ  of  virtue 
which  might  have  been  remaining  in  his  breast.  His 
house  was  the  resort  of  the  British,  and  not  those  of  the 
better  class;  and  drinking  and  gambling  parties,  prolonged 
far  into  the  night,  were  no  uncommon  things  in  this  once 
quiet  region. 

Of  all  this  Agnes  was  kept  informed  by  the  old  ser- 
vants of  the  family,  who  mourned  over  Massa  Philip's 
degeneracy,  and  would  fain  have  renewed  the  intercourse 
between  the  sisters.  Elinor,  however,  sided  with  her 
husband,  and  Mr.  Manning's  commands  were  peremptory 
that  Agnes  should  hold  no  communication  with  the  Ly- 
brands. 

What  was  her  consternation  then,  when  old  Brown,  a 
negro  who  had  grown  gray  in  the  service  of  the  family, 
told  her  that  Massa  Philip,  who  was  furious  at  Agnes's 
devotion  to  the  cause  he  hated,  had,  when  in  his  cups, 
actually  proposed  to  some  English  officers  to  carry  off 
Agnes,  saying  that  her  father  would  bleed  well  for  her 
ransom ! 

"  It  was  only  a  jest.  Miss  Aggy,"  said  old  Brown, ''  and 
dey  was  all  drunk ;  but  I  'm  afraid  dem  Britishers  wont 
forget  it  nor  dose  red  Indians  dat  stood  round  the  door 
hearing  all  that  was  said,  I  tink  you  better  send  for  Massa 
William  to  take  care  of  you." 

This  seemed  indeed  her  only  resource  ;  so  without  a  mo- 


64  THEFOUNTAIN. 

merit's  delay,  she  wrote  to  her  brother,  and  despatched  the 
letter  by  a  trusty  m  ;ssenger,  the  only  mode  of  communication 
in  those  troublous  times.  She  confined  herself  closely  to  the 
house,  and  endeavoured  by  assiduity  in  the  good  cause,  and 
constant  attention  to  her  father,  to  forget  the  danger  which 
seemed  to  hang  over  her. 

At  length  the  British  soldiers  who  had  infested  the 
neighbourhood  for  a  time,  disappeared ;  and  tranquillity 
was  once  more  established.  Agnes  began  to  regret  that 
she  had  alarmed  her  brother,  and  obliged  him  to  request 
leave  of  absence,  when  every  true  heart  was  so  deeply 
needed  at  the  scene  of  action.  She  ventured  to  resume  her 
walks,  confining  herself  however,  to  her  father's  grounds, 
and  only  trusting  herself  occasionally  in  her  batteau  on 
the  Delaware,  in  the  vicinity  of  the  house.  This,  her  favor- 
ite amusement,  when  the  moon  shone  bright,  she  felt  to  be 
quite  secure ;  for  the  solitude  and  silence  of  that  remote 
region  were  so  profound,  that  the  least  sighing  of  the  wind 
through  the  trees  on  the  shore,  was  audible  to  her,  as  she 
floated  in  the  middle  of  the  stream. 

The  nights  were  now  splendid,  and  as  Mr.  Manning 
always  retired  immediately  after  tea,  Agnes  was  at  liberty, 
while  the  family  were  about,  and  the  house  abounding 
with  lights,  to  spend  an  hour  in  her  favorite  retreat.  She 
pushed  her  little  boat  out  from  the  shore,  and  sat  luxuriating 
in  the  quiet  loveliness  of  the  scene,  when  suddenly  she 
became  aware  of  a  bark  canoe,  which  glided  noiselessly  to 
the  side  of  her  boat,  and  in  the  next  instant  a  heavy  cloak 
was  flung  around  her  head,  so  as  effectually  to  prevent 
sound  or  struggle ;  and  she  felt  herself  drawn  swiftly  along 
down  the  river,  by  a  power  utterly  irresistible,  and  in  per- 
fect silence.  Every  effort  of  hers  was  promptly  repressed, 
and  in  a  very  short  time,  she  sank  fainting  with  terror,  into 
the  bottom  of  the -boat. 

After  some  time,  she  could  not  guess  how  long,  but  the 
moon  which  had  but  just  risen,  when  she  ventured  upon 


AGNES.  65 

her  ill-fated  indulgence,  was  riding  high  in  heaven,  she 
was  placed  upon  the  ground,  at  a  little  inlet,  on  the  left 
bank  of  the  river.  Here  the  cloak  was  unrolled  from  her 
person,  and  she  found  herself  in  the  presence  of  three 
Indians,  two  men  and  a  woman,  who  signified  to  her  that 
she  must  proceed  on  foot  with  them.  This  she  was  entirely 
unable  to  do,  for  terror  had  deprived  her  of  all  strength  ; 
and  after  some  ineffectual  efforts  to  follow  her  savage  con- 
ductors, she  sank  upon  the  ground,  completely  helpless. 
The  female  tried  to  re-assure  and  revive  her,  but  finding  her 
still  unable  to  sustain  herself,  the  Indians  after  some  con- 
sultation among  themselves,  set  about  constructing  a  litter 
out  of  such  materials  as  the  woods  afforded.  This  rude 
affair  finished,  they  spread  over  it  such  things  as  they  had, 
and  laid  the  trembling  Agnes  upon  it,  and  bore  her  upon 
their  shoulders.  As  daylight  began  to  appear,  they  left  the 
more  travelled  road,  and  struck  into  a  by  path,  which  led 
deep  into  the  woods ;  and  it  was  not  until  the  sun  had 
risen  some  time,  that  they  stopped  for  rest  and  refresh- 
ment. 

The  Indian  woman  had  evidently  been  brought  as  an 
attendant  for  Agnes,  and  she  performed  her  part  as  well  as 
she  could,  endeavoring  to  induce  the  poor  girl  to  eat,  and 
offering  her  such  trifling  accommodations  as  their  situation 
permitted.  But  when  Agnes  was  able  to  reflect,  she  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  these  Indians  were  probably  the  very 
same  whom  old  Brown  had  described  as  listening  to  the  wild 
suggestions  of  Lybrand,  and  that  they  must  therefore  un- 
derstand some  English,  if  they  could  not  or  would  not 
speak  it.  She  therefore  employed  all  her  ingenuity,  and  all 
the  eloquence  she  could  command,  to  induce  them  to  return 
her  to  her  father,  promising  them  double  the  reward  they 
were  to  receive  for  her  abduction,  be  that  what  it  might ; 
and  holding  up  to  them,  the  severe  punishment  to  which 
they  would  be  subjected,  if  their  villainy  should  be  dis- 
covered.    They  listened  in  stolid  silence,  showing  by  no 

6* 


66  THEFOUNTAIN. 

(ook  or  sign,  that  they  understood  one  word  of  what  she 
had  been  saying ;  but  when,  on  their  attempting  to  place 
her  again  on  the  htter,  she  made  some  show  of  resistance, 
and  tried  the  feminine  weapon  of  a  few  shrieks  and  en- 
treaties, they  made  their  intentions  intelHgible  by  showing 
her  a  tomahawk,  with  a  very  expressive  gesture  towards 
her  forehead.  Her  courage  was  not  proof  against  this 
horrible  threat,  and  sinking  once  more,  she  allowed  them  to 
place  her  where  they  would,  deferring  her  hope  of  rescue 
until  she  should  reach  the  British  camp,  whither  she  had 
no  doubt  they  were  carrying  her.  For  the  whole  day  they 
travelled  in  silence,  through  the  thick  woods,  and  it  was 
not  until  sunset  that  they  halted,  to  prepare  food,  and 
arrange  a  resting-place  for  the  night. 

While  they  were  thus  absorbed,  an  American  officer, 
with  a  file  of  soldiers,  turned  the  corner  of  a  rock,  under  the 
shelter  of  which  they  had  been  resting.  Agnes  was  almost 
dizzy  with  joy,  but  her  habitual  prudence  did  not  desert  her, 
even  when  she  saw  that  the  new  comer  was  none  other 
than  her  friend  and  admirer,  Captain  Greenwood,  and  she 
repressed  the  exclamation  which  was  rising  to  her  lips. 
Greenwood,  with  equal  caution,  refrained  from  recognising 
her  as  an  acquaintance,  but  addressed  himself  at  once  to  the 
Indians,  who  had  seized  their  rifles,  at  sight  of  the  stran- 
gers. Agnes,  had  involuntarily  risen  from  the  litter,  and 
now  stood  in  the  midst  of  her  captors,  forming  as  complete 
a  protection  for  them,  as  the  strongest  entrenchment  would 
have  done,  since  the  least  hostile  movement  on  the  part  of 
Greenwood  and  his  men,  would  have  been  the  signal  for 
her  instant  destruction.  The  young  man  saw  that  his  only 
hope  was  in  compromise,  bribe  or  stratagem  ;  and,  calling 
up  one  of  his  men,  who  understood  some  of  the  Indian 
dialects,  he  caused  him  to  enquire  of  the  savages  which 
side  they  were  on,  by  way  of  gaining  time  for  reflection. 

"  Indian  side,"  was  the  reply. 

''  King  George  ?"    No  answer. 


AGNES.  67 

"General  Washington?'-'  Still  perfect  silence,  accom- 
panied by  an  impatient  movement,  which  desired  the 
questioners  to  pass  on. 

"  Whither  are  you  taking  this  young  lady  ?" 
"  What  is  that  to  you  ?     We  are  taking  care  of  her." 
"Does  she  wish  to  go  with  you,  or  is  she  your  pris- 
oner ?" 

"  We  know  what  we  do  ;  go  your  way." 
After  numerous  questions  which  elicited  no  answers 
more  satisfactory  than  those  we  have  recounted,  Green- 
wood ordered  his  men  to  bring  forward  their  stores,  among 
which  was  a  quantity  of  brandy.  At  sight  of  this,  the 
Indians,  determined  as  they  were,  could  not  help  relenting 
a  little  ;  the  fatal  propensity  of  their  nation  being  too  strong 
for  their  determination.  Greenwood  filled  a  drinking  cup 
with  the  liquor,  and  offered  it  to  the  savage,  who  stood 
nearest  him ;  but  he  moved  not  a  step  from  Agnes,  but 
motioned  to  the  woman  to  hand  him  the  cup.  The  other 
was  equally  prudent,  and  Greenwood  soon  perceived  that 
if  brandy  was  to  accomplish  any  thing,  it  must  be  by  making 
the  enemy  thoroughly  drunk ;  so  that  the  prey  might  be 
stolen  while  they  slept.  To  this  effect,  he  said  a  few  words 
to  the  soldiers,  who  were  not  sorry  to  spread  their  pro- 
visions on  the  ground,  and  prepare  for  supper,  after  a  long 
day's  march.  They  invited  the  Indians  to  partake  with 
them,  but  they  signified  that  their  officer  must  first  seat 
himself,  which  he  did,  without  taking  his  eye  off  their 
movements.  They  then  made  Agnes  and  her  attendant, 
take  a  position  exactly  behind  them,  while  they  placed 
themselves  within  reach  of  the  canteen  of  brandy,  not  dis- 
daining however  a  share  of  the  other  provisions,  which  the 
soldiers  took  care  to  offer  them.  Whenever  they  drank, 
they  insisted  that  Greenwood  should  drink  too ;  and  in  his 
zeal  to  disable  them,  he  forgot  that  a  fatiguing  march,  and 
perhaps  a  head  less  inured  to  strong  drink,  would  render 
him  liable  to  be  first  overcome ;  and,  before  the  savages 


68  THEFOUNTAIN. 

began  to  show  any  signs  of  stupidity,  their  entertainers 
were  feeUiig  very  sensibly  the  effects  of  what  they  had 
taken.  In  that — there  is  no  disguising  it — Captain  Green- 
wood was  excessivly  sleepy,  and  as  there  was  a  good  deal 
of  liquor  left,  and  the  Indians  seemed  by  no  means  tired  of 
it,  he  thought  that  a  short,  a  very  short  nap  would  refresh 
him  for  the  duties  before  him.  His  head  drooped  against 
the  bough  of  a  twisted  tree,  which  grew  conveniently  near ; 
and  before  he  had  quite  decided  upon  his  plan  of  operations, 
he  fell  fast  asleep.  His  soldiers,  concluding  their  com- 
mander had  relinquished  all  hope  of  rescuing  the  young 
lady,  followed  his  example,  and  the  wily  savages,  not  at 
all  disabled  by  what  they  had  drank,  got  up  quietly,  put 
Agnes  into  the  litter,  and  proceeded  on  their  journey. 


CHAPTER  III. 

For  three  days  and  nights,  did  the  unfortunate  Agnes  suffer 
all  the  fatigue  and  deadly  terror  of  this  dreadful  journey. 
The  Indians  had  undoubtedly  set  out  with  the  intention  of 
carrying  their  prey  to  Philadelphia,  where  concealment  of 
their  outrage  would  have  been  comparatively  easy  to  all 
concerned;  but  on  the  22nd  of  June  1778,  the  British  army 
had  evacuated  the  city,  and  were  on  their  march  through 
the  state  of  New  Jersey.  The  savages  had  been  so  long  in 
hiding,  waiting  until  Agnes  should  be  off  her  guard,  that  the 
movements  of  their  allies  were  entirely  unknown  to  them  ; 
and  the  first  intimation  they  received  of  the  change  of 
position,  was  by  falling  in  with  a  party  of  Washington's 
advanced  guard,  who  were  hanging  on  the  rear  of  the  ene- 
my. They  were  made  prisoners  immediately,  and  their 
capture  transferred  to  the  charge  of  the  officer  in  com- 
mand 


AGNES.  69 

Leaving  our  heroine  thus  in  safe  keeping,  though  worn 
and  exhausted  to  the  last  degree,  we  must  return  for  a  mo- 
ment, to  her  desolate  home.  Old  Brown  had,  of  course, 
told  all  he  knew  or  conjectured  of  her  abduction ;  and  it  is 
needless  to  attempt  to  describe  the  distress  of  her  aged 
parent,  at  the  loss  of  his  darling,  aggravated  as  it  was,  by 
the  treachery  of  his  son-in-law.  Lybrand  himself,  to  do 
him  justice,  was  shocked  beyond  measure,  at  the  result  of 
his  drunken  frenzy,  and  went  at  once  to  Mr.  Manning,  to 
offer  any  atonement  in  his  power.  After  a  scene  of  agoni- 
zing reproach,  on  the  part  of  the  father,  and  attempts  at 
apology  on  that  of  the  son,  it  was  concluded  that  Lybrand 
should  set  off  in  pursuit,  never  to  return  until  he  brought 
Agnes  with  him.  Elinor  remained  with  her  father,  while 
her  husband  made  the  utmost  speed  for  Philadelphia,  the 
news  of  the  evacuation  of  that  city  by  the  British,  not  hav- 
ing yet  reached  this  remote  point. 

William  Manning,  meanwhile  had  been  lying  ill  at  the 
camp  at  Valley  Forge,  where  cold,  hunger  and  distress,  of 
all  kinds,  had  reduced  hundreds  of  poor  fellows  to  the  same 
or  a  worse  condition.  He  had  so  far  recovered,  however, 
that  when  the  army  moved,  he  was  able  to  mount  a  horse, 
and  proceed  with  the  rear  guard.  He  obtained  leave  of 
absence  for  his  friend  Greenwood,  and  despatched  him  to 
the  relief  of  Agnes,  supposing  it  might  be  necessary  for  him 
to  remain  at  Mr.  Manning's  until  the  British  should  have 
left  the  neighbourhood ;  and  was  now  suffering  the  great- 
est anxiety,  until  he  could  hear  the  result  of  his  mission. 
The  Indians  had  taken  a  by-path,  to  avoid  meeting  Amer- 
ican soldiers,  and  Captain  Greenwood  had  chosen  the  same 
lest  he  should  be  hindered,  by  falling  in  with  British  strag- 
glers.    Hence  their  chance  meeting. 

Greenwood's  bitter  mortification,  on  finding  the  bird 
flown,  we  shall  leave  to  the  imagination  of  those  whom 
temporary  forgctfulness,  produced  in  a  similar  manner,  may 
have  led  to  the  commission  of  solecisms  equally  unpardor 


70  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

able.  Goaded  by  the  stings  of  his  own  mind,  he  made  his 
way  back  to  his  post,  in  the  main  body  of  the  army,  in  an 
incredible  short  space  of  time ;  and  the  first  person  he  met 
was  Elliot  Warner,  whom  William  Manning  had  informed 
of  the  errand  of  Greenwood.  To  meet  and  answer  the 
questions  of  Warner,  was  a  new  punishment  for  the  unfor- 
tunate Greenwood;  and  the  result  would  have  been  a 
quarrel,  but  for  the  temperate  firmness  of  the  former,  who 
chose  rather  to  attempt  the  rescue  of  Agnes,  than  to  waste 
time  in  fighting  him  who  had  failed  in  it.  He  resolved  at 
once  to  ask  leave  of  absence,  although  what  course  to  pur- 
sue when  he  should  have  obtained  it,  he  could  scarcely 
determine. 

"Leave  of  absence  when  a  battle  is  in  prospect!"  ex- 
claimed his  commander ;  "  if  it  were  almost  any  other  man 
than  Lieutenant  Warner,  I  should  scarce  know  what  to 
think :  but  he  who  has  endured  the  winter  at  Valley  Forge 
without  a  murmur,  relinquishing  to  others,  the  few  com- 
forts he  might  have  enjoyed,  is  above  suspicion." 

Elliot,  colouring  deeply,  explained  the  circumstances  as 
well  as  he  could,  calling  Agnes  the  sister  of  his  friend  Cap- 
tain Manning,  who  was  disabled  by  illness. 

"  And  in  what  manner  do  you  intend  to  proceed  ?"  in- 
quired Col,  R . 

"Indeed  I  scarcely  know,"  replied  Warner;  "I  had 
thought  of  laying  the  case  before  the  commader-in-chief, 
and  requesting  a  flag  of  truce,  in  order  to  have  an  inquiry 
instituted  in  the  British  force — " 

"  I  believe  this  will  be  your  best  course,"  said  the  Col- 
onel, "  and  I  will  give  you  a  letter  to  General  Washington, 
which  may  be  of  service  to  you." 

Warner  took  the  letter  which  his  commander  hastily 
penned,  and  with  due  thanks  set  out  on  his  blind  quest. 
Washington,  whom  no  circumstances  of  haste,  difficulty,  or 
danger  ever  disabled  from  any  duty,  however  discordant, 


AGNES.  71 

read  his  colonel's  letter,  listened  patiently  to  his  recital,  and 
when  he  had  finished,  took  a  letter  from  a  file  near  him. 

"  I  believe  I  can  save  you  the  trouble  of  a  search,  and 
the  mortification  of  leaving  the  army  at  such  a  time.  Lieu- 
tenant Warner.  I  have  this  morning  received  notice  that 
a  young  lady  was  rescued  from  a  party  of  Indians,  by  our 

advanced  guard,  and  is  now  under  the  care  of  Major , 

who  has  command  of  the  party  by  whom  she  was  rescued, 
as  the  state  of  the  country  is  such,  that  there  was  in  the 
vicinity  no  place  of  safety  in  which  she  could  be  be- 
stowed." 

Warner  fancied  there  was  something  of  covert  reproof,  in 
the  General's  manner,  and  not  all  the  reverence  he  felt  for 
him,  could  repress  entirely  the  expression  of  his  feelings. 

"  I  hope — I  trust — your  Excellency  cannot  for  a  mo- 
ment suppose  that  I  sought  an  errand  which  should  take 
me  from  my  post  at  such  a  time.  This  young  lady  is  the 
sister  of  my  friend,  the  intimate  of  my  family  from  child- 
hood, and  she  was  placed  in  the  most  cruel  jeopardy — " 

"  Very  true,"  said  the  General,  coldly,  "  but  if  I  am 
rightly  informed,  Captain  Greenwood  had  already  been  dis- 
patched in  search  of  her." 

Warner  was  on  the  point  of  saying  that  Greenwood  had 
failed  in  the  attempt  to  rescue  her  from  the  Indians,  but  he 
recollected  himself  in  time  to  avoid  casting  this  reflection 
on  a  rival,  and  was  silent,  though  smarting  under  the  im- 
plication of  the  General's  manner.  He  was  about  taking 
his  leave,  when  Washington  perhaps  reading  his  mortifica- 
tion in  his  countenance,  again  spoke. 

"  You  must  pardon  me,  Lieutenant  Warner,  if  I  seem  to 
have  forgotten  your  patient  endurance  of  our  terrible  win- 
ter, your  fortitude,  your  temperance,  your  sacrifices  in  favour 
of  others.  I  have  not  done  so,  but  defections  where  I  least 
anticipated  them,  have  been  so  frequent  of  late,  that  I  have 
become  perhaps  too  suspicious ;  scarce  knowing  where  to 
place  any  confidence.     Return  to  your  post,  sir,  and  I  trust 


72  THEFOUNTAIN. 

you  will  find  no  reason  to  complain  of  injustice  on  my 
part." 

Elliot  Warner  bowed  low  and  took  his  leave  in  silence ; 
at  once  awed  and  delighted  by  the  half-confidential  tone  in 
which  his  idolized  commander  had  addressed  him,  and  re- 
solving if  possible,  to  regain  his  good  opinion,  when  an 
opportunity  should  arise  for  meeting  the  enemy. 

Philip  Lybrand,  discovering  in  his  fiery  course,  the 
movement  of  the  two  armies,  continued  his  speed  to  gain 
the  British  lines,  but  falUng  in  with  a  reconnoitering  party, 
was  taken  before  their  commanding  officer,  who  happened 
to  be  Captain  Greenwood.  Mutual  explanations,  led  to 
high  words,  and  both  being  excited,  lacking  in  self  com- 
mand, and  conscious  of  ill-deserts,  a  challenge  was  the  con- 
sequence ;  the  meeting  taking  place  without  an  hour's 
delay,  lest  the  battle  which  was  now  daily  expected,  should 
prevent  it.  Both  were  wounded  at  the  first  fire — Lybrand 
in  the  arm,  Greenwood  in  the  side ;  and  but  for  the  inter- 
ference of  the  seconds,  the  quarrel  would  have  been  fought 
to  the  death. 

Sad  state  of  things,  for  old  friends  and  neighbours,  com- 
panions from  infancy,  and  bound  to  each  other,  by  a  thou- 
sand ties  !  Sad  state  of  things,  chargeable,  perhaps,  orig- 
inally to  horrid,  denaturalizing  war,  but  in  no  small  degree 
to  the  influence  of  the  poison  which  often  sets  at  variance 
whole  neighbourhoods,  and  ruins  a  greater  amount  of  hap- 
piness every  year,  than  war  itself 

Lybrand,  still  unsatisfied  as  to  the  fate  of  Agnes,  of 
which  Greenwood  was  ignorant,  continued  on  his  way, 
still  resolved  to  seek  the  British  camp,  if  necessary,  rather 
than  allow  his  errand  to  await  the  event  of  the  battle. 
He  met  with  no  hindrance  until  he  reached,  just  at  even- 
ing, the  advanced  posts  of  the  American  army,  which, 
after  a  pretty  severe  skirmish  with  a  party  of  the  enemy, 
were  preparing  for  the  night.  Lybrand  was  carried  at 
once  to  the  tent  of  Col.  R .     Here  he  learned  that 


AGNES.  73 

Agnes  had  been  lodged  in  safety  with  the  family  of  a 
clergyman,  Mr.  Caldwell,  who  lived  at  some  little  dis- 
tance from  the  scene  of  action,  and,  obtaining  an  escort, 
he  set  out  immediately  to  seek  her,  feeling  that  nothing 
was  left  for  him  to  do  but  to  make  the  only  atonement  in 
his  power,  by  confessing  his  fault.  Agnes,  much  altered 
by  fatigue,  terror  and  anxiety,  received  Lybrand  with  a 
gentleness  that  cut  him  to  the  soul. 

"I  knew  well,  Philip,"  she  said,  "that  your  real  self 
could  never  have  harboured  a  thought  injurious  to  me  or 
to  my  dear  father.  It  was  that  cruel  enemy  which  is 
preparing  your  destruction — which  will  end  in  making 
you  what  you  yourself  will  abhor  and  despise — unless — 
oh,  Philip ! — unless  you  will,  for  my  sake,  this  very  mo- 
ment make  the  resolution  to  avoid  it  forever,  as  you  would 

shun  dishonour,  crime,  remorse,  misery "    She  ceased, 

overcome  by  her  emotion,  and  Philip  was  scarcely  less 
moved. 

"Agnes  !"  he  said,  "if  you  will  accept  such  a  resolu- 
tion as  an  atonement  for  my  crime  against  you,  I  am 
ready  to  forswear  from  this  moment  every  thing  that  can 
lead  to  such  evils.  I  will  promise  you  never  again  while 
I  live  to  touch  wine  or  strong  drink ;  and  not  Avithout 
the  concurrence  of  my  own  reason  and  judgment,  for  I 
feel  that  you  are  right." 

"  I  ask  it  not  as  an  atonement,  dear  Philip,"  said  she, 
"  but  for  your  own  sake — for  Elinor's — for  the  dear  child- 
ren's ;  and  if  you  are  indeed  willing  to  make  such  a 
resolution,  I  shall  consider  all  I  have  suffered  as  nothing, 
in  comparison  with  so  great  a  good.  Oh  that  my  dear 
brother — that  all  whom  I  love,"  would  see  in  the  thousand 
woes  which  mar  the  happiness  of  life,  the  mark  set  by 
Heaven  upon  that  fatal  indulgence  !  But  Philip,  you  are 
pale,  and  your  arm — what  has  happened  ?" 

Lybrand  blushed,  and  hesitated,  but  he  was  obliged  to 
confess  the  truth. 

7 


74  THEFOUNTAIN. 

"And  Walter  Greenwood  is  wounded  too?" 

"  Yes,  but  I  hope  not  dangerously." 

Agnes  wept  so  bitterly  that  her  brother-in-law  began 
to  believe  her  interest  in  the  wounded  captain  far  greater 
than  he  had  ever  supposed  it.  To  some  words  expressive 
of  this,  Agnes  replied  by  a  direct  negative. 

"  He  could  never  be  any  thing  to  me,"  she  said,  "  if 
only  on  account  of  his  habits,  which  I  consider  so  de- 
structive of  all  firmness  of  virtue.  But  I  cannot  but 
weep  when  I  think  of  the  chain  of  troubles " 

"  Brought  on  by  my  misconduct,"  said  Lybrand ;  "but 
be  merciful,  Agnes,  and  accept  my  repentance  as  some 
atonement.  Perhaps  Greenwood  may  find  in  the  bitter 
mortification  he  has  suffered,  reason  to  forswear  forever 
the  treacherous  ally  which  played  him  so  false.  Poor 
Reed  has,  I  fear,  gone  down  rapidly  since  he  left  the 
restraints  of  home ;  but  another  of  our  friends — Elliot 
Warner — has,  as  I  am  told,  been  an  example  of  temper- 
ance and  every  manly  virtue  since  he  joined  the  army." 

Agnes  thought  of  the  parting  conversation  on  the 
piazza,  and  felt  that  even  her  few  simple  words  might 
not  have  been  in  vain. 

Lybrand  was  hospitally  entertained,  and  his  wounds 
looked  to,  by  the  kind  clergyman  and  his  wife,  and  the 
next  day,  June  2Sth,  before  noon,  the  firing  at  Monmouth 
absorbed  the  attention  of  all.  The  day  was  intensely 
hot ;  there  was  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring,  no  cloud  miti- 
gated the  fervor  of  the  sun,  and  the  very  birds  forgot  to 
sing.  Hour  after  hour,  until  the  close  of  day,  did  the 
appalled  family  listen,  with  beating  hearts,  to  the  sound 
of  cannon  ;  and  throughout  that  dreadful  day,  when  the 
deepest  recesses  of  the  house  seemed  scarcely  to  afford  a 
shelter  from  the  sun,  scarce  a  moment's  pause  in  the  firing 
could  be  observed.  Solicitude  for  the  fate  of  friends  and 
neighbours,  and  anxiety  to  learn  the  fortune  of  the  day, 
had  reached  their  utmost  height,  when,  late  in  the  after- 


AGNES.  75 

noon,  a  baggage  cart  approached  the  house,  bearing  seve- 
ral wounded  men,  for  whom  charitable  attention  was 
claimed  and  readily  granted.  Among  the  sufferers  was 
Elliot  Warner,  who  had  been  shot  down  while  in  the  act 
of  warding  off  a  sword-cut  from  a  soldier  who  was 
already  disabled.  His  wound  was  both  deep  and  dan- 
gerous, and  as  no  surgeon  could  immediately  be  obtained, 
his  situation  was  extremely  critical.  But  his  calmness, 
and  the  strictness  of  his  habits,  were  so  much  in  his 
favour,  that  the  fever  was  comparatively  slight,  and 
when,  after  considerable  delay,  a  surgeon  did  arrive,  his 
report  was  favourable.  Philip  Lybrand,  who  was  all 
kindness  and  activity  in  assisting  in  the  care  of  the  suf- 
ferers, took  sole  charge  of  Warner,  and  as  soon  as  the 
wounded  man  was  in  a  condition  to  bear  conversation, 
imparted  to  him  all  that  had  occurred. 

"  I  fear  poor  Greenwood  is  about  to  suffer  cruelly  for 
his  blunder,"  said  Warner,  "for  his  wound  prevented 
his  being  on  the  field  to-day,  and  he  will  probably  be 
cashiered  for  his  misconduct  in  allowing  a  private  quar- 
rel to  interfere  with  the  public  service.  If  it  were  not 
for  this  wound — but  I  know  not  that  I  could  possibly  do 
any  thing  to  save  him." 

Lybrand  was  much  disturbed  by  this  new  consequence 
of  his  impetuosity,  and  racked  his  brain  in  vain  to  devise 
some  mode  of  averting  the  evil.  But  what  could  he — a 
Tory,  one  known  as  an  abettor  of  the  enemy — hope  to 
effect  with  the  Commander-in-Chief?  He  informed  Ag- 
nes of  the  difficulty,  hoping  woman's  wit  might  devise 
some  expedient  to  prevent  Greenwood's  suffering  so  se- 
verely for  his  want  of  tact  and  self-government.  But 
Agnes's  nature  was  so  direct  that  she  could  think  of 
nothing  but  going  herself  to  General  Washington,  not  so 
much  to  plead  for  Greenwood,  as  to  lay  before  the  Com- 
mander-in-Chief a  full  statement  of  the  circumstances, 
hoping  that  his  consideration  for  the  feelings  of  a  young 


76  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

man  placed  in  such  a  mortifying  position,  would  mduce 
him  to  relax  a  little  the  severity  of  discipline.  Lybrand 
himself  could  think  of  nothing  better,  and  he  hoped  much 
from  Agnes's  good  sense  and  sincerity,  and  the  winning 
gentleness  of  her  nature,  in  impressing  Washington  favour- 
ably. It  was  expected  that  the  battle  would  have  been 
renewed  in  the  morning,  and  the  American  troops  rested 
on  their  arms  for  that  purpose ;  but  Sir  Henry  Clinton 
prudently  decamping  in  the  night,  leisure  was  given  for 
longer  repose,  and  various  matters  connected  with  the 
conduct  of  the  day  became  the  subject  of  examination. 
It  is  well  known  that  General  Lee,  who  risked  the  fortune 
of  the  attack  by  a  disobedience  of  orders  at  the  com- 
mencement of  the  engagement,  was  subsequently  sus- 
pended from  his  command  for  one  year,  although  his 
gallant  conduct  throughout  the  battle  might  be  thought, 
in  some  measure,  to  have  redeemed  his  error.  Lieuten- 
ant John  Reed,  for  having  been  intoxicated  at  the  very 
outset  and  jeoparding  his  troop  by  his  incapacity,  would 
have  been  subject  to  the  severest  punishment,  but  that  he 
was  one  of  that  number  who  dropped  dead  on  the  field 
from  the  effects  of  the  heat.  After  many  cases  were  dis- 
posed of,  news  reached  the  party  in  which  we  are  inter- 
ested, that  Captain  Greenwood  was  to  be  tried  by  a  court 
martial  on  the  following  day  at  noon. 

Agnes's  courage  nearly  failed  her  when  the  time  ar- 
rived for  her  to  venture  into  the  presence  of  Washington, 
as  a  suppliant ;  but  the  good  clergyman  encouraged  her, 
promising  to  accompany  her,  and  representing  the  Gene- 
ral's noted  courtesy  and  the  consideration  which  he  always 
afforded  to  all  reasonable  representations.  The  afternoon 
of  the  day  preceding  the  trial  was  decided  to  be  the  latest 
moment  that  would  do  for  the  attempt,  and  Agnes  and 
her  reverend  friend  were  preparing  to  set  out,  when  a 
military  cortege  approached  the  house,  in  front  of  which 
rode  General  Washington  himself.     In  making  his  usual 


AGNES.  77 

round  of  personal  inspection,  he  sought  Lieutenant  War- 
ner and  the  other  wounded  men,  whom  he  understood  to 
be  quartered  at  Mr.  Caldwell's.  Warner  was  reclining 
on  a  sofa  in  the  same  room  with  the  family  when  the 
General  and  his  suite  were  introduced.  The  gracious 
words  of  Washington,  who  was  not  uninformed  of  the 
young  Lieutenant's  behaviour  on  the  field,  were  like 
balm  to  his  wounded  spirit,  and  the  announcement  that 
he  was  promoted  for  his  gallant  conduct,  almost  filled  the 
measure  of  the  young  man's  content,  so  that  the  guests 
were  about  departing  before  he  recollected  the  mission 
of  Agnes.  As  he  had  been  the  person  principally  ad- 
dressed by  the  General,  he  ventured  to  introduce  Miss 
Manning,  and  to  hint  that  she  had  a  communication  to 
make  to  his  Excellency.  Washington  turned  to  her  with 
great  courtesy,  and  observing  her  to  be  painfully  embar- 
rassed, requested  permission  to  hear  her  in  another  room. 

Alone  with  the  General,  and  quite  re-assured  by  the 
fatherly  kindness  of  his  manner,  Agnes  told  him  her  little 
story,  and  pleaded  for  Greenwood  with  all  the  eloquence 
of  truth  and  sisterly  kindness.  Washington  hesitated,  for 
he  never  gave  a  promise  without  reflection. 

"  May  I  ask  you,  my  dear  young  lady,"  said  he  kindly, 
"  whether  you  are  particularly  interested  in  this  young 
gentleman?" 

"  I  assure  you,  sir,"  said  Agnes,  "  that  my  interest  in 
him  is  simply  that  of  a  friend  and  neighbour,  and  that  my 
pleadings  refer  to  what  I  believe  to  be  the  strict  justice  of 
the  case.  I  may  add,  perhaps,  without  impropriety,  that 
I  believe  that  a  public  disgrace  will  be  the  utter  ruin  of 
Walter  Greenwood,  since  he  needs  all  that  self-respect  can 

do  for  him "    She  stopped,  fearful  of  going  too  far,  but 

Washington,  who  knew  the  character  and  habits  of  every 
officer  under  his  command,  understood  her. 

"  You  are  right,  my  dear  young  lady ;  you  are  quite 
right,"  said  he ;  "  and  your  noble  courage  has  saved  your 

7* 


78  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

friend.  Rest  assured  that  he  shall  be  treated  with  all  the 
mildness  which  the  nature  of  the  case  will  allow."  And 
so  saying,  he  led  her  back  to  the  company  and  took  his 
departure,  leaving,  as  he  often  did,  many  gratified  hearts 
behind  him.  No  man  ever  possessed  more  personal  quali- 
fications for  his  position  than  did  Washington,  and  Ly- 
brand,  who  had,  as  it  were,  shrunk  into  himself  while  in 
his  presence,  exclaimed,  as  he  rode  away, 

"  By  heavens  !  Warner,  if  I  had  been  under  the  influ- 
ence of  that  man,  I  should  not  have  been  what  I  am  !" 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  follow  out  any  further  the 
thread  of  our  simple  tale.  Agnes  was  restored  to  her 
father,  and  peace  and  happiness  once  more  took  up  their 
abode  in  that  ancient  mansion.  Lybrand  maintained  his 
promise  manfully,  and  before  the  close  of  the  war  was  as 
good  an  American  as  the  best.  Greenwood,  brought  to 
reflection  by  the  vexations  he  had  suffered,  turned  from 
the  course  which  would  have  blasted  the  hopes  of  his 
friends ;  and  Elliot  Warner,  honourably  discharged  at  the 
peace,  returned  to  his  rural  home,  and  in  due  time  wooed 
and  won  her  who  had  been  as  a  loadstone  to  his  thoughts, 
during  years  of  temptation  and  trial. 


iM :©©[£©  giaaTosi©  tikie.  ifj®©w 


/v. 


THE  WATERS  OF  MERIBAH. 


BY   THE   EDITOR. 


"Would   God  that  we,  before  the  Lord,  had  died  as 

Korah  died ! 
Or  fall'n  when  Dathan's  Uving  grave  its  portals  opened 

wide  ! 
Oh,  with  Abiram  and  his  host,  if  we  engulphed  had  been, 
We  had  not  lived  to  perish  in  the  wilderness  of  Zin ! 

"  Where  are  the  milk  and  honey,  where,  oh  lying  prophet, 

say. 
For  which,  from  Egypt's  flesh-pots,  we  have  wandered 

far  away  ? 
Oh,  wherefore  from  the  land  of  Ham  unto  this  evil  place. 
Did  ye,  with  faithless  promises,  beguile  our  stricken  race  ? 

"  The  sterile  desert's  arid  sand  our  sinking  spirit  mocks — 
We  parch  with  drought,  ourselves  and  wives,  our  little 

ones  and  flocks — 
This  is  no  place  of  pomegranates,  of  figs,  or  vines,  or  seed, 
We  thirst,  we  faint,  we  pant,  we  die,  in  our  extremest 

need ! " 

Thus  did  the  house  of  Israel  against  the  Lord  complain. 
And  thus   against   his  servants  rose   their   murmurings 

profane  : 
And  yet  did  Moses  not  delay,  or  halt  with  parleying  word, 
But  hastened  in  humility,  to  plead  before  the  Lord. 

79 


80  THEFOUNTAIN. 

Forth  from  the  Ark  then  Moses  drew  the  wonder-working 

rod, 
And  summoned  all  the  host,  as  he  commanded  was,  of 

God: 
Oh  man,  of  all  men  meekest,  then  why  did  thy  patience 

fail, 
When  God  to  Jacob  would  have  shown  what  his  word 

might  avail ! 

"  Hear  now,  ye  rebels !"  Moses  cried,  "  ye  men  of  evil 

stock — 
Must  we,  to  stay  your  mutiny,  draw  water  from   this 

rock?" 
His  arm  he  raised,  the  rock  he  smote,  and  smote  it  yet 

again — 
And  forth  from  out  the  riven  flint  the  water  gushed  amain. 

Oh  water  !  to  man's  parching  lips.  Heaven's  welcome, 

dearest  gift, 
How,  at  the  boon,  e'en  murmurers,  their  voice  in  praises 

lift ! 
The  mother  hastens  to  allay  her  infant's  burning  thirst. 
And  ere  the  hale  and  strong  may  drink,  the  old  are  sated 

first. 

Alas  for  him,  the  man  of  God,  who  raised  the  hasty  hand, 
For  this,  both  he  and  Aaron  were  forbade  the  promised 

land! 
Take  heed,  oh  mortal,  and  ne  'er  let  the  lesson  be  forgot — 
God's  righteousness,  poor  finite  man  in  anger  worketh 

not.* 


*"For  the  wrath  of  man  worketh  not  the  righteousness  of  God." — 
James  i.  20. 


FAMILY    INTERFERENCE. 

BY  F.  E.  F.,  AUTHOR  OP  "  A  MARRIAGE  OF  CONVENIENCE,"  &C.  &C. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"  Walter  wishes  to  be  married  in  church,"  said  Cora 
Selwyii,  addressing  her  motlier  and  sisters,  as  they  were 
holding  a  family  council  over  the  arrangements  neces- 
sary for  her  marriage. 

"In  church!"  exclaimed  Annie,  "what  an  idea! 
What  on  earth  put  that  in  his  head  ? " 

"  No  matter  what  put  it  in,"  said  Augusta,  laughing ; 
"  he  must  put  it  out,  for  weddings  in  church  are  detes- 
table.    Sue  Hargrave's  was  as  solemn  as  a  funeral." 

"  Oh  yes,"  echoed  Annie,  "  and  besides,  full  dress  is 
so  unbecoming  in  the  morning.  If  you  change  the  hour 
and  alter  the  arrangements,  we  must  have  other  dresses, 
for  as  to  wearing  those  we  have  ordered,  in  a  damp,  cold 
church,  I  won  't  for  one." 

"  Oh,  nonsense  !"  said  Augusta,  pettishly,  "  tell  Wal- 
ter to  leave  us  to  arrange  matters.  Men  always  spoil 
things  when  they  undertake  to  meddle." 

"  I  think,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Selwyn,  "  it  had  better 
take  place  in  the  evening,  according  to  the  original  plan." 

"  To  be  sure  it  had,"  chimed  in  Armie,  "  decidedly. 
This  is  a  most  absurd  whim  of  Walter's.  After  you 
have  spoken  to  your  bridesmaids,  too.  So  that  he  is 
married  on  the  first,  I  don 't  see  what  difference  it  makes 

81 


82  THEFOUNTAIN. 

to  him  the  when  or  the  how  the  ceremony  takes  place. 
For  my  part,  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever  heard  of  the 
gentleman's  dictating  the  arrangements." 

"  He  did  not  mean  to  dictate  at  all,  Annie,"  said  Cora, 
colouring  ;  "  he  merely  expressed  the  wish  ;  but  I  do  not 
know  that  it  is  a  thing  he  cares  about,  and  since  you  all 
dislike  the  idea  so  much,  I  will  tell  him  so,  and  of  course 
he  will  leave  us  to  settle  it  as  we  please." 

The  cloud  cleared  from  the  brows  of  the  young  ladies, 
who  had  ben  not  a  little  shocked  by  having  all  their 
visions  of  gaiety  dashed  by  the  sober  and  quiet  proposi- 
tion of  their  brother-in-law  elect,  and  so  the  consultation 
was  resumed,  and  wedding  guests  counted,  and  the  supper 
planned,  with  as  much  animation  and  spirit  as  if  their 
prospects  had  received  no  check  from  the  open  and 
avowed  wishes  of  one  of  the  persons  most  interested  in 
the  event,  viz.,  the  groom  himself. 

When  he  called,  according  to  custom,  in  the  evening, 
the  Misses  Selwyn  were  busily  occupied  at  a  round  table 
writing  invitations.  He  glanced  at  one  of  them,  and  as 
he  turned  away,  said,  a  little  gravely, 

"  It  is  to  be  in  the  evening,  then  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  Cora,  "  the  girls  would  not  hear  of 
any  thing  else,  and  as  I  did  not  suppose  you  cared  much 
about  it,  I  yielded." 

Now  Walter  Stanley  did  care  about  it,  for  he  was  a 
modest,  quiet  young  man,  and  the  idea  of  being  married 
in  a  crowd,  made  him  decidedly  nervous.  He  could  not, 
however,  contend  the  point  with  his  bride  and  her  family, 
so  he  had  only  to  wish  most  devoutly  that  the  day  was 
over,  and  pass  to  another  matter  that  interested  him 
much. 

"  My  old  friend  Robert  Randale  has  just  arrived.  I 
did  not  think  he  would  have  been  here  these  two  months, 
and  I  was  really  glad  to  see  him  to-day.  He  is  just  in 
time,  for  I  have  not  yet  asked  Rutledge  to  be  my  grooms- 


FAMILY     INTERFERENCE.  83 

man.  I  called  upon  him  yesterday,  for  that  purpose,  but 
fortunately  as  it  turns  out,  he  was  not  at  home,  and  now 
I  wish  to  ask  Robert  in  his  place,  if  you  have  no  objec- 
tions." 

"  Certainly  not,"  answered  Cora  ;  "  any  one  that  you 
are  so  much  attached  to,  I  shall  be  happy  to  see.  Annie, 
though,  will  be  a  little  disappointed  not  to  have  Rut- 
ledge — and  — "  not  finishing  her  sentence,  she  left  her 
lover  and  crossed  over  to  the  table  where  her  sisters 
were  busily  writing,  folding,  and  sealing,  and  said  some- 
thing in  a  low  tone  to  Annie,  to  which  she  replied, 
coldly, 

"  And  who  is  he  to  stand  up  with  ?  Not  with  me,  for 
one.  Walter  can  ask  who  he  chooses  for  groomsman  — 
only  you  don't  have  me  for  bridesmaid.  I  shall  not 
stand  up  with  Robert  Randale,  I  can  tell  him." 

"  And  pray,  is  Tom  Rutledge  not  to  be  asked  at  all  ? " 
exclaimed  Augusta,  looking  up  aghast  at  the  idea,  for 
Tom  Rutledge  was  one  of  the  most  elegant  and  fashion- 
able young  men  about  town,  and  decidedly  a  favourite 
with  the  sisters.  In  fact,  the  chief  end  and  object  of  the 
wedding,  in  their  minds,  was  the  having  him  as  Annie's 
groomsman ;  and  even  Mrs.  Selwyn  looked  a  little  grave 
and  disappointed  at  this  change,  for  Rutledge,  beside 
being  to  the  daughter's  taste,  suited  the  mother's  views. 
He  was  a  good  match,  as  well  as  a  captivating  fellow, 
and  she  had  been  very  well  pleased  with  the  prospect  of 
the  increasing  intimacy  between  the  young  people  that 
the  wedding  festivities  promised. 

"  Let  him  stand  up  with  Miss  Cranstown,"  said  Mrs. 
Selwyn,  looking  up,  as  if  that  was  a  bright  idea  that 
obviated  all  difficulties. 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Annie,  impatiently,  "  that  will  never 
do.  She  is  such  a  spiteful  thing,  that  if  siie  is  put  off 
with  Robert  Randale,  and  I  stand  with  Rutledge,  she 
will  be  sure  to  have  something  disagreeable  to  say." 


84  THEFOUNTAIN. 

Why  such  an  amiable  young  lady,  or  one  at  least  who 
was  held  in  such  a  pleasing  light  by  her  young  friends, 
should  be  asked  to  perform  an  office  generally  supposed 
to  be  filled  by  those  nearest  or  dearest  to  the  bride,  may 
perhaps  puzzle  those  not  well  acquainted  with  the  de- 
tails of  a  fashionable  marriage.  For  the  benefit  of  those 
so  unenlightened,  we  will  merely  hint,  that  Miss  Crans- 
town's  family  being  not  only  rich,  but  one  of  the  gayest 
of  the  gay  clique  to  which  they  belonged,  a  party  for  the 
bride  followed,  as  a  matter  of  course,  wherever  she  offi- 
ciated as  bridesmaid. 

"  I  don't  know  what  we  can  do,"  said  Augusta,  "for 
between  you  and  I,  Cora,  Robert  Randale  is  a  horror. 
We  need  not  tell  Walter  so,  but  he  is ;  and  besides,  he 
knows  nobody.  How  we  shall  manage  with  him,  when 
you  see  company,  is  more  than  I  can  imagine." 

"We  cannot,"  said  Annie,  decidedly.  "I  don't  see 
why  Walter  should  think  of  him  at  this  last  minute.  He 
never  said  anything  about  him  before.  Why  can't  he 
let  matters  go  on  as  they  have  been  all  arranged  be- 
fore?" 

"  Randale  has  just  arrived,"  said  Cora,  "  or  I  suppose 
he  would  have  proposed  him  before.  In  fact,  had  he 
come  a  day  later  he  could  not  have  thought  of  him  at 
all,  for  he  just  missed  Rutledge,  upon  whom  he  called 
this  morning." 

"  How  unfortunate  ! "  ejaculated  Augusta. 

"  I  wish  to  heavens  he  had,"  said  Annie. 

"  Walter  seemed  so  pleased  to  have  seen  Randale," 
continued  Cora  ;  "  he  says  he  is  such  an  excellent,  warm- 
hearted— " 

"  I  dare  say,"  interrupted  Annie,  "but  you  know  all 
that  is  not  to  the  point  just  now.  He  is  the  most  awk- 
ward person  imaginable,  and  so  embarrassed,  and  con- 
fused. Oh,  invite  him  to  the  wedding,  and  that  will  do. 
You  can  ask  him  to  dinner,  too,  if  Walter  makes  much 


FAMILY     INTERFERENCE.  85 

fuss  about  it ;  but  really,  as  to  bis  taking  Rutledge's 
place,  Walter  must  not  tbink  of  it." 

"  Well,"  said  Cora,  reluctantly,  balf-persuadcd  by  ber 
sister,  and  yet  unwilling  to  disappoint  ber  lover,  "  tell 
Walter  so  yourself,  Annie ;  I  leave  tbe  matter  in  your 
hands." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Annie,  stoutly,  "  I  am  not  afraid. 
Here,  Mr.  Walter  Stanley,"  sbe  called  out  playfully, 
"  your  presence  is  wanted ;"  and  Walter  quitted  Mr. 
Selwyn,  witb  whom  he  had  been  talking  during  this  dis- 
cussion, and  crossing  the  room,  joined  the  coterie  at  the 
table. 

"  Have  you  any  idea,  hope,  or  expectation,"  she  con- 
tinued in  the  same  gay  tone,  "  of  being  married  on  the 
first  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  only  such  an  idea  and  hope,  but  the 
strongest  expectation  of  it,"  he  replied,  smiling. 

"  Then,"  pursued  Annie,  "  don't  put  another  straw  in 
our  path,  for  we  have  so  much  to  do,  and  are  so  hurried, 
that  we  have  not  time  to  pick  them  up." 

"  What  have  I  been  doing?"  he  inquired  anxiously. 

"  Twice  to-day,"  she  continued,  with  mock  gravity, 
"you  have  upset  all  our  plans  with  your  innovations 
and  changes ;  and  twice  in  one  day  is  most  too  much  for 
the  patience  of  any  set  of  ladies.  You  should  have 
thought  of  your  friend,  Mr.  Randale,  before ;  but  now 
that  Cora  has  invited  her  bridesmaids,  and  told  them 
who  the  groomsmen  are  to  be,  it  is  too  late  to  settle  mat- 
ters differently.  Ask  him  to  the  wedding,  by  all  means, 
or  shall  I  write  him  a  note  in  mamma's  name  ? " 

Stanley  looked  disconcerted,  and  answered  slowly, 
"  I  am  sorry  you  think  it  too  late,  for  I  fear  Robert  will 
be  hurt  —  " 

"  Tell  him  you  are  sorry  he  did  not  arrive  before,  and 
promise  to  have  him  next  time,"  said  Annie,  laughing. 

But  Walter  could  not  laugh.     He  was  mortified  and 


86  THEFOUNTAIN. 

disappointed,  and  showed  his  chagrin  so  decidedly,  that 
Annie  exclaimed, 

"  'Pon  my  word,  Walter,  one  would  not  think  you 
were  discussing  your  marriage,  to  look  at  you.  Really, 
Cora,  if  my  lover  looks  so  grave  when  I  am  talking  of 
my  wedding,  I  don't  think  I  shall  take  it  quite  as  coolly 
as  you  do." 

Whereupon  every  body  looked  up  at  poor  Stanley, 
who,  conscious  that  he  was  vexed,  and  more  vexed  still 
at  showing  it,  coloured  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  as  he 
tried  to  laugh  off  his  embarrassment ;  but  Annie,  per- 
ceiving her  advantage,  followed  it  up  with  some  more 
bantering  in  the  same  style,  until  he  withdrew,  saying, 

"  Do  as  you  please,  Annie,  so  you  don 't  change  the 
groom,  or  postpone  the  day,  I  yield  the  rest  in  your 
hands." 

"  Well,  keep  yourself  quiet,  and  don 't  interfere  any 
more,"  said  Annie,  laughing,  "  or  I  may  be  tempted  to 
commit  one  or  the  other,  or  may  be,  both  of  the  above 
named  atrocities." 

"  So  that  is  settled,"  she  continued  in  an  undertone  to 
Augusta  and  her  mother.  "  He  is  not  pleased,  but  I 
don 't  care  for  that ;  I  am  not  to  be  married  to  him,  thank 
heaven,  and  his  being  pleased  or  not  is  not  my  affair." 

Stanley,  on  his  side,  looked  forward  with  impatience 
to  the  time  when  he  should  be  his  own  master  again, 
and  there  was  as  much  temper  as  love  in  the  earnestness 
of  his  desire  to  have  the  happy  day  over.  Fortunately 
the  time  was  approaching  very  near,  for  had  a  week 
more  elapsed  before  the  marriage  took  place,  he  and 
Annie  would  have  hated  each  other ;  as  it  was,  a  seed 
was  sown  that  only  wanted  time  and  opportunity  to 
spring  up  and  bear  fruit  of  not  a  very  agreeable  flavour. 

And  yet  they  were  neither  of  them  unamiable  persons; 
but  the  Selwyns  being  a  large,  gay  family,  and  all  think- 
ing and  feeling  very  much  alike,  were  fond  of  their  own 


FAMILY     INTERFEUENCE.  87 

ways,  and  not  at  all  accustomed  to  yielding  to  others. 
In  fact,  they  thought  that  every  body  who  did  not  think 
as  they  did,  thought  wrong,  and  those  who  felt  dillerently, 
so  very  unreasonable  as  scarcely  to  deserve  any  conside- 
ration at  all.  Moreover,  they  had  quick  powers  of  ridi- 
cule, and  were  pretty  unsparing  in  their  use  of  tliem  ; 
and  the  unlucky  mortal  who  happened  to  displease  one 
of  the  family,  was  very  apt  to  encounter  a  full  battery 
from  the  whole  of  them.  Now  Walter  Stanley  was 
rather  a  slow  and  very  modest  young  man,  and  some- 
what obstinate  withal — ^just  the  person  to  dread  wit, 
shrink  from  ridicule,  and  resent  opposition.  He  had 
fallen  in  love  with  Cora  because  she  was  pretty  and 
playful ;  and  she  had  been  gratified  by  the  gravity  of 
his  admiration  and  the  earnestness  of  his  devotions. 
Good  principles,  good  temper  and  good  prospects,  seemed 
to  promise  them  as  much,  if  not  more  happiness  than 
falls  to  the  lot  of  most  mortals. 

The  wedding  day  arrived  without  any  more  jars  or 
clouds  to  disturb  the  harmony  of  the  event.  Annie 
looked  her  prettiest,  and  Tom  Rutledge  looked  as  if  he 
thought  so.  The  fair  bride  was  very  lovely,  and  the 
veil  faultless.  The  groom  looked  as  conscious  and  un- 
comfortable, and  his  white  vest  as  conspicuous,  as  they 
generally  appear  upon  such  occasions,  and  the  rest  of 
the  company  as  wedding  guests  always  do.  That  is, 
there  was  the  usual  sprinkling  of  very  old  ladies  whom 
one  never  sees  on  any  other  occasions,  and  an  odd  rela- 
tion or  two,  who  seemed  dragged  from  their  obscurity  to 
amuse  their  more  fashionable  relatives,  and  the  young 
cousins,  who  seem  to  feel  as  if  it  is  a  great  bore  to  be 
dressed  up  only  for  each  other. 

The  real  enjoyment  of  the  scene  seems  principally 
confined  to  the  bridesmaids  and  groomsmen,  and  the 
cutting  the  cake  the  only  event  that  at  all  breaks  in  on 
the  monotony  of  t'he  evening,  until  the  supper  room  is 


88  THEFOUNTAIN. 

thrown  open.  With  all  its  drawbacks  of  dulness  and 
ennui,  however,  a  wedding  is  ever  accounted  a  joyous 
affair,  and  that  of  Mr,  and  Mrs.  Stanley  was  neither  less 
dull  nor  less  happy  than  occasions  of  the  kind  are  apt 
to  be. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Cora  was  soon  settled  in  a  small  but  very  pretty  establish- 
ment, and  surrounded  by  all  the  little  consequence  and  oc- 
cupations that  young  housekeepers  make  for  themselves, 
was  very  happy.  Her  intercourse  with  her  own  family 
was  only  just  sufficiently  interrupted,  to  make  daily  meet- 
ings a  matter  of  great  interest  and  eagerness  to  both  sides. 
Cora  living  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city  and  her  family 
above,  it  was  most  natural  that  they,  in  the  course  of  their 
shopping  and  visiting,  should  be  frequently  drawn  in  her 
vicinity,  and  to  stop  and  see  Cora,  and  half  the  time  to  stay 
and  dine  with  her,  soon  became  quite  a  matter  of  course. 
Stanley  was  not  inhospitable,  and  the  kindly  feelings  enter- 
tained by  every  well  disposed  man  who  loves  his  wife  to- 
wards that  wife's  relations,  led  him  always  to  receive  them 
with  cordiality.  But  notwithstanding  this  proper  frame  of 
mind,  he  could  not  help  soon  beginning  to  feel  that  he 
should  like  sometimes  to  find  his  wife  alone.  He  had  no 
natural  sympathy  of  either  disposition  or  tastes  with  the 
Selwyns,  and  frequently  when  he  came  home  fatigued 
with  the  duties  of  the  counting-house,  and  his  spirits  fagged 
and  jaded  with  the  many  cares  of  a  commercial  life,  want- 
ing rest  and  repose  for  both  body  and  mind,,  his  patience 
was  not  a  little  taxed  by  the  high  spirits  and  incessant  gos- 
sip of  his  sisters  in-law,  and  his  good  manners  tried  to  their 
uttermost  in  his  efforts  to  do  the  cordial,  respectful  and 
proper  to  Mr.  or  Mrs.  Selwyn.     He  began  indeed  to  sus- 


FAMILY      INTERFERENCE.  89 

pect  that  instead  of  withdrawing  Cora  from  the  family,  he 
had  only  drawn  the  whole  family  after  her;  and  that  the 
quiet  and  happy  home  he  had  promised  himself,  was  in  fact 
but  a  smaller  branch  of  the  Selwyn  establishment. 

To  Cora,  who  of  course  was  compelled  to  pass  many 
of  her  hours  in  the  solitude  that  falls  to  the  lot  of  young 
married  women,  and  which,  transplanted  as  she  had  been 
from  a  large  and  gay  family,  she  felt  sensibly,  the  arrival 
of  her  brothers  and  sisters,  father  and  mother,  was  always 
so  welcome,  that  she  never  suspected  that  they  could  be 
de  trop  to  her  husband. 

Thus  had  passed  the  first  two  months  of  her  marriage, 
when  one  morning  as  she  was  sitting  at  her  mother's,  in  the 
full  tide  of  chat  and  gossip,  the  clock  striking  three,  she  rose 
hastily  to  go,  when  Annie  exclaimed, 

"  Why  where  are  you  going,  Cora ;  I  have  not  half  done 
yet,  pray  set  down." 

"  It  is  time  for  me  to  be  going  home,"  replied  Cora,  "  we 
dine  at  four." 

"  Surely  my  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Selwyn,  "  you  are 
going  to  dine  with  us.     Take  off  your  hat." 

"  No  thank  you  mother,"  replied  Cora,  "  Walter  will  be 
at  home  and  I  must  return." 

"Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Selwyn  with  a  twinge  of  mater- 
nal jealousy,  "  and  if  Walter  is  at  home,  cannot  he  dine  for 
once  without  you.  You  have  not  spent  a  day  here  since 
Christmas." 

"  If  I  had  only  left  word  that  I  was  coming  up  here," 
said  Cora,  hesitatingly,  "  he  might  have  followed  me,  but  as 
it  is—" 

"  Why  of  course  Cora,"  said  Augusta,  "  he  will  know 
you  are  here.  Where  else  could  you  be  ?  He  will  be  in 
before  dinner,  depend  upon  it.  Come  take  off  your  hat, 
and  make  your  mind  easy." 

But  Cora  could  not  resolve  so  readily  upon  doing  either 
of  these  things,  nor  yet  upon  going  at  once,  as  she  should 

8* 


90  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

have  done,  for  Annie  had  a  world  of  fun  and  news  to  tell 
her,  and  her  mother  looked  a  little  hurt  too  at  her  evident 
reluctance  to  staying,  and  then  the  whole  family  chimed  in 
with  the  assurance  of  Walter's  joining  her  before  dinner 
was  on  table  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  so  by  the  time  it 
was  too  late  to  go,  she  made  up  her  mind  to  remain. 

When  dinner  was  announced,  however,  and  no  Walter  had 
made  his  appearance,  Cora  was  really  annoyed.  Her  sisters 
neither  understanding  nor  sympathising  in  her  feelings, 
were  both  vexed  and  amused  by  them. 

"  Why  really  Cora  it  is  too  absurd.  One  would  think 
Walter  could  not  cut  up  his  own  meat,  or  mash  his  own 
potatoes,  to  hear  you  worry  so.  Do  you  suppose  the  man 
never  ate  a  dinner  by  himself  before  ?" 

"  Ten  to  one  now,"  said  the  other,  "  that  he  is  dining  out 
somewhere,  while  Cora  here  is  moaning  over  his  solitary 
dinner." 

Cora  coloured  and  said, 

"  If  I  had  only  left  word  that  I  was  coming  up  here,  I 
should  not  care  about  it,  but  I  am  afraid,  not  knowing 
Avhere  I  am,  he  may  be  uneasy  about  me." 

"  Nonsense,  Cora,  of  course  he  knows  you  are  here. 
You  are  not  afraid  he  will  suspect  you  of  dining  at  Del- 
monico's  are  you?" 

Cora  laughed  and  said,  "No,"  and  Mrs.  Selwyn  sup- 
posed he  must  probably  have  thought  he  was  too  late  for 
their  dinner  hour,  but  of  course  he  would  join  them  before 
tea.  Lights  now  made  their  appearance,  and  the  whole 
family  now  gathered  in  the  drawing-room,  and  Cora,  dis- 
missing her  anxieties,  gave  herself  up  to  the  cheerfulness 
of  the  time.  The  Selvvyns  were  a  gay  spirited  family,  full 
of  intelligence  and  talk,  and  always  had  a  world  of  news 
and  gossip  to  enliven  the  social  circle,  as  they  met  together 
at  that  pleasantest  of  hours  that  elapses  between  dinner  and 
tea ;  and  this  afternoon  they  were  more  than  usually  ani- 
mated, and  to  Cora  who  had  been  confined  so  much  of  the 


FAMILY      I  N  T  E  K  F  E  R  E  N  C  E  .  91 

time  to  her  own  little  quiet  home,  the  wit  and  fim  of  the 
merry  group  was  really  exciting.  So  the  evening  wore  on 
cheerfully,  till  she  was  roused  from  the  enjoyment  of  a  full 
tide  of  cozy  pleasant  talk  with  her  mother,  by  the  clock's 
striking  nine.     She  started  and  exclaimed, 

"  Oh !  how  strange  it  is  that  Walter  does  not  come." 

"  Do  'nt  make  yourself  uneasy  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Sel- 
wyn,  "one  of  your  brothers  will  see  you  home." 

This  was  said  a  little  stiffly,  as  if  she  thought  Walter 
ought  to  have  come,  and  then  Cora  began  to  feel  for  the 
first  time  as  if  Walter  might  have  come  after  her. 

Charles  told  her  he  was  ready  to  accompany  her  home, 
whenever  she  wished  to  go,  but  Annie  laughed  and  told 
her" she  need  not  hurry  on  her  husband's  account,  as  he 
seemed  to  take  her  absence  very  coolly,"  and  Augusta  had 
some  very  apropos  remarks  to  make,  pretty  much  in  the 
same  spirit ;  so  that  between  their  banter  and  her  own  re- 
sentment, she  let  another  hour  pass  on,  and  then  she  felt 
she  must  go,  and  nobody  any  longer  opposed  her.  She 
took  her  brother's  arm,  and  started  for  her  own  house. 
The  street  door  had  scarcely  closed  upon  her,  when  Mrs. 
Selwyn  said  with  some  spirit,  not  to  say  temper. 

"  I  do  think  Walter  might  have  put  himself  to  the  trouble 
of  coming  for  her." 

"  I  think  so  indeed  !"  exclaimed  Annie  indignantly,  "  it 
is  abominable." 

"  I  expect  my  gentleman  is  vexed  at  her  staying,"  said 
Augusta. 

"  It  is  rather  hard,  I  must  say,"  continued  Mrs.  Selwyn, 
in  the  same  tone  of  excitement  in  which  she  had  first  spo- 
ken, "  if  a  daughter  is  not  to  be  allowed  to  dine  with  her 
mother  now  and  then." 

"  I  wonder  if  he  would  hesitate  to  dine  out  if  he  wanted 
to,"  said  Annie.  "  But  so  it  is,  these  men  are  always  ready 
to  follow  out  their  own  fancies,  have  no  idea  of  a  poor 
woman's  having  the  least  freedom." 


92  THEFOUNTAIN. 

"Poor  child !"  said  Mrs.  Sehvyn,  now  beginning  to  mix 
pity  for  her  daughter,  with  anger  against  her  son-in-law, 
"  she  has  not  been  accustomed  to  be  held  to  such  strict  ac- 
count." 

"  I  was  determined  she  should  not  go  home  early, 
when  I  found  he  was  not  coming  for  her,"  said  Augusta, 
" and  I  don't  care  whether  he  is  angry  or  not," 

"  Nor  should  I,  my  dear,"  replied  her  mother,  "  if  it 
did  not  re-act  upon  poor  Cora ;  but  if  a  man  is  out  of 
temper,  depend  upon  it,  there  is  no  comfort  for  the 
wife ;"  and  thus  they  continued  their  spirited  critique 
upon  the  delinquencies  of  their  brother  and  son-in-law, 
suspected  or  actual,  till  they  wound  up  with  the  empha- 
tic, though  not  elegant  declaration,  "  that  they  feared  he 
was  'ugly'  tempered." 

The  fact  had  been  that  Stanley  had  come  home  rather 
later  than  usual,  and  much  fatigued.  Somewhat  sur- 
prised at  finding  his  wife  had  not  yet  returned  from  her 
morning's  walk,  he  waited  dinner  for  her  some  time, 
and  then,  having  more  than  a  usual  press  of  business, 
had  hurriedly  eaten  his  solitary  meal,  and  immediately 
returned  to  the  counting-house. 

His  surprise  took  a  tinge  almost  of  displeasure,  when, 
on  his  entering  the  drawing-room  again,  at  seven,  he 
found  Cora  still  absent.  He  rang  the  bell  as  decidedly 
as  if  it  might  some  way  be  in  fault,  and  when  the  ser- 
vant appeared,  asked,  with  unusual  precision, 

"  Are  you  sure  Mrs.  Stanley  left  no  message  for  me 
when  she  went  out?" 

"  Mrs.  Stanley  did  not  leave  any  word  at  all,  sir,"  re- 
plied the  man. 

"  At  what  time  did  she  leave  home  ?" 

"  Somewhere  between  twelve  and  two,  sir." 

"  Strange  ! "  muttered  Stanley  to  himself.  "  If  she 
had  only  left  word  where  I  was  to  find  her.  However 
she  must  be  in  presently." 


FAMILY     INTERFERENCE.  93 

"  Shall  I  bring  in  tea  ?"  inquired  the  servant. 

"  No,  wait  till  Mrs.  Stanley  returns ;"  and  taking  up 
a  book,  Mr.  Stanley  tried  to  forget  his  vexation  in  read- 
ing. It  would  not  do,  however.  As  the  hours  rolled 
on,  his  eye  glanced  occasionally  at  the  clock,  and,  disap- 
pointed in  his  constant  expectation  of  hearing  his  wife's 
ring,  he  began  to  grow  uneasy,  and  consequently  angry. 
Once  or  twice  he  had  risen  to  his  feet,  intending  to  go  in 
search  of  her,  but  being  extremely  fatigued,  which  added 
somewhat  to  his  temper,  he  had  again  resumed  his  seat, 
saying, 

"  If  she  had  only  left  word  where  she  was  going." 

In  this  pleasant  frame  of  mind  Cora  found  him,  as  she 
returned  from  her  father's,  where  all  she  had  left  had 
been  so  gay  and  good  humoured. 

If  she  had  felt  a  little  ill-used  and  inclined  to  complain 
before  she  entered  the  house,  her  tone  quickly  changed 
when  she  found  how  much  more  her  husband  felt  him- 
self aggrieved,  and  instead  of  the  pretty  reproaches  she 
was  ready  to  address  him,  she  found  herself  making  all 
sorts  of  apologies  and  excuses. 

"  We  expected  you  to  dinner,  certainly,  Walter ; — 
mother  waited  half  an  hour  for  you." 

"  She  was  very  good,"  he  replied  dryly ;  "  but  I  re- 
ally do  not  see  what  reason  you  had  for  expecting  me." 

"  You  knew  I  was  there,"  she  replied,  reproachfully. 

"  I  presumed  you  were,"  he  answered,  "  but  even 
then  I  should  scarcely  think  of  presenting  myself  at  your 
father's  at  so  late  an  hour,  when  I  had  no  reason  to  sup- 
pose myself  expected," 

"  Oh,  Walter  ! "  exclaimed  Cora,  "  why  should  you 
say  so  ?  I  am  sure  they  do  not  use  such  ceremony  with 
us." 

No.  Walter  knew  they  did  not.  He  only  wished  they 
did.     However,  he  merely  said, 

"  Well,  well — I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  safely  home 


94  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

again.  Suppose  you  give  me  a  cup  of  tea  now,  will 
you  ?" 

"  Tea  ! "  repeated  Cora,  with  surprise  ;  "  have  you  not 
had  tea?" 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  I  have  been  expecting  you  in 
every  minute,  and  so  did  not  order  it."  In  fact  he  had 
been  too  angry  to  give  himself  any  comfort  within  his 
reach,  and  so,  because  he  could  not  have  his  wife,  had 
gone  without  his  tea. 

The  sight,  however,  of  her  pretty  face,  and  the  refresh- 
ing influence  of  a  couple  of  cups  of  good  bohea,  soon 
restored  him  to  his  usual  temper ;  but  Cora  could  not  so 
readily  recover  the  tone  of  her  feelings.  Her  gaiety  had 
received  a  sudden  check,  any  thing  but  agreeable,  and 
the  evening  soon  after  closing,  she  retired  to  her  room 
with  a  gloom  upon  her  spirits  she  had  seldom  experi- 
enced before,  and  doubting,  for  the  first  time,  whether 
after  all,  there  was  any  such  great  happiness  in  being 
married. 


CHAPTER  III. 

We  very  often  see  a  grave,  steady  young  man,  domestic 
and  quiet  in  all  his  tastes,  falling  in  love  with  a  gay  and 
lively  girl,  because  she  is  gay  and  lively,  and  then,  after 
he  has  married  her,  expecting  her  all  at  once  to  become 
as  quiet  and  domestic  as  himself.  This  was  something 
the  case  with  Walter  Stanley.  He  had  been  captivated 
by  the  animated  manners  and  playful  conversation  of 
Cora  Selwyn,  and  having  caught  his  singing  bird,  had 
very  little  mercy  in  caging  it  in  his  small  and  quiet  domi- 
cil,  where  every  thing  was  in  as  strong  contrast  with  the 
joyous  and  spirited  home  she  had  left  as  could  be  ima- 
gined. 


FAMILY     INTERFERENCE.  95 

The  same  jjheerful  disposition,  however,  that  had  led 
Cora  to  enjoy  society  with  so  keen  a  zest,  made  her 
happy  in  the  new  mode  of  life  which  seemed  so  decidedly 
her  husband's  taste,  and  for  his  sake  she  would  have  en- 
tered upon  it  with  wihing  acquiescence  had  her  family 
left  her  to  herself     But  it  was  constantly 

"  Oh,  Cora,  you  must  not  refuse  Mrs.  Gore.  T  want 
you  to  matronize  me.  Mamma  says  she  can't  go.  Be- 
sides, what  new  whim  is  this,  of  your  not  going  out?" 

"  Walter  did  not  seem  inclined  to  go,  so  I  thought  per- 
haps I  had  better  refuse." 

"  Nonsense  !  Walter  will  make  an  old  woman  of  you 
before  your  time.  You  are  quite  too  young  and  pretty 
to  give  up  society  in  this  way.  Walter  had  better  go 
out  a  little  more  himself,  and  learn  to  live  as  others  do. 
Nothing  makes  people  so  crogical  and  peculiar  as  living 
by  themselves.  They  learn  to  think  that  they  are  the 
only  right-minded,  sensible  persons  in  the  world,  whereas 
they  are  growing  dull  and  conceited  by  the  minute. 
However,  Charles  will  go  with  us,  if  Walter  had  rather 
not." 

To  have  replied  that  her  husband  not  only  would 
much  prefer  staying  at  home,  but  that  he  would  be 
almost  equally  unwilling  to  have  her  go  without  him, 
Cora  knew  would  be  to  stamp  him  at  once  in  Annie's 
mind  as  having  reached  that  climax  of  dulness  and  con- 
ceit she  seemed  so  much  to  despise.  Moreover,  her  own 
disposition  leaning  decidedly  to  gaiety,  and  the  hint  of 
her  youth  and  beauty  not  being  thrown  away,  she  re- 
membered "  she  was  only  nineteen,  and  that  it  was 
unreasonable  to  expect  her  to  give  up  all  pleasure  so 
soon,"  and  that  perhaps,  after  all,  it  would  do  Walter 
good  to  force  him  out  in  the  world  occasionally,  made 
her  reverse  her  decision  as  to  its  being  "  better  to  refuse 
Mrs.  Gore's  invitation,"  and  so  she  ended  by  promising 
Annie  to  go. 


96  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

"  Poor  Cora  is  moped  to  death,"  her  sisters  would 
say  pathetically.  "  Then  last  evening  Walter  must  begin 
to  read  aloud.  Stupid  fellow,  why  can 't  he  read  to  him- 
self, instead  of  boring  Cora,  as  he  does  ? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Augusta,  "  that  is  just  what  he  dearly 
loves  ;  to  have  Cora  sewing,  and  let  him  read  aloud.  If 
the  man  was  only  a  good  reader,  the  thing  would  do  very 
well ;  but  nothing  could  be  more  tame  and  common- 
place than  his  manner  is.  I  really  pity  Cora  for  the  way 
in  which  she  is  compelled  to  pass  half  her  evenings.  If 
it  was  not  for  us  she  would  be  bored  to  death." 

Now,  here  her  sisters  were  mistaken.  Cora  dearly 
loved  her  husband,  and  the  tones  of  his  voice  were  plea- 
sant to  her,  whether  he  chose  to  read  or  talk,  but  per- 
haps she  would  have  preferred  the  latter,  and  she  never 
felt  that  she  was  bored  except  when  they  were  present. 
Then,  indeed,  her  ear  took  a  quicker  sense,  and  with 
something  of  that  mesmeric  influence  we  are  all  con- 
scious of  in  hearing  through  the  organs  of  another,  she 
felt  that  her  husband's  was  not  that  spirited  and  elegant 
reading  for  which  alone  her  family  had  any  respect. 

"Annie,"  said  Cora,  one  pleasant  spring  day,  "do 
you  and  Augusta  feel  inclined  to  go  with  Walter  and 
myself  up  the  river  a  little  way,  to  see  a  place  we  think 
of  taking  for  the  summer?" 

"Oh,  pray,  don't  take  a  country  place,  Cora,"  ex- 
claimed both  the  girls.    "  What  put  that  in  your  head?" 

"  It  is  Walter's  idea,  not  mine.  He  says  the  place  is 
in  the  market,  and  can  be  bought  cheap,  but  first  we 
should  try  it  for  the  summer  before  he  decided  upon 
purchasing  it.  It  is  so  near  the  city  that  he  might  come 
home  every  evening." 

"  Of  all  things,  I  detest  a  country  seat,"  said  Annie, 
"  for  there  one  is  tied  down,  and  there  is  no  getting  away 
from  it.     Oh  no,  go  to  Newport  with  us,  Cora." 

"  I  think,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Selwyn.  "  that  that  is 


FAMILY     INTERFERENCE.  97 

the  better  plan.  It  appears  to  mc  that  the  chief  benefit 
one  derives  from  going  out  of  town,  is  the  perfect  relax- 
ation from  all  cares ;  and  you  have  no  idea  how  trouble- 
some you  will  find  housekeeping  in  the  country." 

"  What  is  that,  Cora  ? "  inquired  her  father.  "  Does 
your  husband  think  of  buying  on  the  river  ?" 

"  He  talks  a  little  of  it,  sir,"  she  answered  somewhat 
doubtfully,  for  she  was  beginning  already  to  take  the 
infection  of  discontent. 

"  He  will  find  it  a  more  expensive  plan  than  he  anti- 
cipates, I  can  tell  him,"  continued  Mr.  Selwyn.  "  A 
country  seat  runs  away  with  a  vast  deal  of  money,  par- 
ticularly to  one  who  knows  as  little  about  it  as  Stanley." 

"  Oh,  it  is  but  a  small  place,"  replied  Cora,  now  almost 
ashamed  of  the  proposition. 

"  Then  he  had  better  leave  it  alone  altogether,"  said 
Mr.  Selwyn,  "  for  there  is  no  comfort  in  a  small  place. 
Nothing  can  be  pleasanter  than  a  residence  in  the  coun- 
try, but  then  you  nmst  have  a  large  house  and  fine 
grounds.  Your  little  boxes  are  nasty  things.  The  houses 
are  low  and  hot,  and  you  have  all  the  inconveniences 
without  any  of  the  pleasures  of  the  country ;  and  even 
then  it  will  cost  you  more  than  you  have  any  idea  of," 
continued  Mr.  Selwyn,  who  once  having  made  a  very 
expensive  experiment  of  the  kind  himself,  imagined  that 
every  body  must  go  to  work  as  blindly,  and  come  out  as 
unprofitably  as  he  had  done,  from  such  schemes. 

"  Oh,  Cora,  let  us  all  go  to  Newport  together,  and 
then  if  you  will  go,  we  can  be  off  by  June.  Mamma 
does  not  wish  to  go  so  soon,  on  account  of  the  children's 
school,  but  Augusta  and  I  are  wild  to  be  off  early.  The 
southerners  come  on  about  that  time,  and  it  is  delightful, 
and  besides,  you  are  so  much  more  comfortable  if  you 
take  possession  early." 

"  I  should  like  nothing  better  for  myself,"  replied 
Cora,  "  but  on  Walter's  account,  I  wished  to  be  some- 

9 


98  THEFOUNTAIN. 

where  near  the  city.  I  cannot  leave  him,  you  know,  all 
summer." 

"  Oh,  of  course  not ;  but  he  can  come  down  every 
Saturday,  and  spend  all  Sunday  with  you,"  said  Annie, 
as  if  this  wonderful  concession  of  one  day  out  of  the 
seven  was  as  much  as  any  man  could  require. 

"  This  is  the  way  all  the  married  men  do,  and  you 
have  no  idea  how  much  they  enjoy  it.  You  and  Walter 
can  walk  on  that  beautiful  beach,  and  sit  on  those  de- 
lightful cliffs,  on  such  delicious  moonlights  as  they  have 
no  where  else  but  at  Newport,  and  be  as  romantic  as 
you  please.  You  will  quite  fall  in  love  with  each  other 
again." 

Cora  laughed  and  said  she  hoped  it  was  not  "  neces- 
sary to  go  to  Newport  for  that;"  but  still  the  idea 
pleased  her,  and  upon  the  whole  she  thought  it  would 
be  about  the  best  plan  they  could  hit  on,  and  she  would 
speak  to  Walter  about  it. 

Cora,  who  had  gone  up  to  her  mother's  quite  full  of 
the  country  place,  returned  home  feeling  very  differently 
with  regard  to  it,  and  began  with  great  animation  to 
detail  the  objections  that  had  been  raised  to  his  plan  to 
her  husband,  talking  at  the  same  time  of  Newport. 

He,  however,  was  not  as  easily  to  be  dissuaded  from 
one  project,  nor  induced  as  readily  to  accept  another,  as 
she  had  been,  and  after  some  discussion  the  matter  ended 
with 

"  Well,  well,  wait  till  we  see  this  place.  Perhaps  you 
may  like  it  better  than  you  think  you  will.  In  the  mean 
time  we  need  not  decide  upon  any  thing ;  there  is  no 
hurry  about  it." 

In  compliance  with  her  husband's  wish,  she  accompa- 
nied him  a  few  days  after  to  look  at  the  place  already  so 
much  discussed.  Had  she  not  gone  with  a  mind  already 
stored  with  objections,  she  really  would  have  been  very 
much  pleased  with  it.     The  situation  was  beautiful,  the 


FAMILY     INTERFERENCE.  99 

grounds  pretty,  and  the  house  not  "  low,  hot,  or  uncom- 
fortable." There  were  some  few  inconveniences,  of 
which  she  made  the  most,  but  as  she  did  not  like  to  be 
unreasonable,  and  she  saw  her  husband's  heart  very 
much  set  upon  it,  she  said, 

"  Do,  however,  as  you  wish  about  it,  Walter.  It  is 
not  a  thing  I  like,  but  still  if  you  really  prefer  it  so  much, 
of  course  I  will  make  myself  happy  wherever  you  choose 
to  go," 

This  was  said  so  amiably,  so  sincerely,  showing  at  the 
same  time  her  reluctance  to  going,  but  her  desire  to 
please  him,  that  the  obstinate  look  that  was  gathering 
about  his  mouth  cleared  off  at  once.  He  loved  his  wife 
passionately,  and  to  insist  upon  her  doing  any  thing  she 
frankly  said  she  disliked,  was  quite  out  of  the  question 
particularly  when  she  yielded  the  point  so  prettily  as  she 
had  just  done  this. 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  answered.  "  If  now  that  you  have 
seen  the  place,  you  do  not  like  it,  that  settles  the  matter." 

To  go  to  Newport  early  in  June,  according  to  the 
wishes  of  her  sisters,  followed,  as  a  thing  of  course ;  and 
thus  Walter  found  himself  surrounded  and  thwarted  by 
the  Selwyns,  at  home  or  abroad,  do  what  he  would. 

The  summer  glided  rapidly  away,  and  Cora,  released 
from  the  petty  cares  of  city  life,  and  encircled  by  her 
own  family,  and  that  gaiety  so  congenial  to  her  spirit, 
looked  so  bright  and  blooming,  and  received  her  husband 
with  such  rapture  when  he  came  down  to  visit  her,  that 
he  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  her  at  what  a  sacrifice  of 
comfort  and  happiness  on  his  part  her  present  enjoyment 
was  procured.  In  fact,  when  he  gazed  in  her  lovely 
face,  radiant  with  joy  at  seeing  him,  he  felt  such  fulness 
of  content  in  the  one  day  he  was  permitted  to  enjoy  her 
society  in  the  fresh  breezes  and  bright  air  of  the  sea- 
shore, that  he  almost  forgot  the  discomforts  of  his  week- 
day life,  and  returned  without  a  murmur  back  to  the 


100  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

busy  work-day  world,  in  which  it  was  his  lot  to  toil. 
Very  glad  was  he,  however,  when  the  season  was  over, 
and  his  wife  and  home  were  restored  to  him  again,  in 
the  quiet  routine  that  suited  his  taste. 

A  short  time  after  her  return,  he  one  morning  received 
a  note,  which  he  read  with  evident  complacency,  and 
turning  to  Cora,  said, 

"  Mr. writes  me  word  that  he  will  take  his  beef- 
steak with  us  to-day,  if  we  are  disengaged." 

"  Mr. ! "  exclaimed  Cora,  in  amazement.    "  What, 

the  traveller  and  author?" 

"  Yes,  I  met  him  as  I  was  returning  the  last  time  from 
Newport.  We  had  a  great  deal  of  conversation  to- 
gether, particularly  about  this  Indian  question,  in  which 
it  seems  he  is  much  interested,  and  of  which,  from  the  na- 
ture of  my  business,  I  happened  to  know  a  good  deal. 
I  have  some  papers  that  he  wishes  to  see,  and  I  asked 
him  to  dine  with  us.  He  said  he  could  not  then,  but 
should  be  glad  to  on  his  return  from  Washington.  I 
shall  not  ask  any  one  to  meet  him,  as  he  comes  chiefly 
with  a  view  of  finishing  up  our  conversation  of  last  sum- 
mer, and  just  have  our  usual  family  dinner.  I  imagine 
he  is  tired  of  fine  parties,  and  will  be  glad  of  a  quiet 
meal." 

Cora  assented,  not,  however,  without  a  certain  female 
mental  reservation,  as  to  ordering  some  oysters  and  a 
pair  of  partridges,  as  a  remove,  and  getting  out  the  best 
china  and  all  her  silver. 

Walter,  returning  home  a  little  earlier  than  common, 
found,  with  unpleasant  surprise,  that  the  table  and  side 
tables  were  set  out  with  a  display  very  different  from 
their  quiet  every  day  style,  and  moreover  an  additional 
leaf  drawn  out. 

"Why,  Cora,"  said  he,  with  considerable  vexation, 
"  what  does  all  this  mean  ?    You  know  I  told  you  I  wished 


FAMILY     INTERFERENCE.  101 

every  thing  just  as  usual,  and  why  have  you  enlarged  the 
table.     I  have  not  invited  any  one  but  Mr ." 

"I  know  it,"  she  replied,  "but  I  expect  Annie  and  per- 
haps my  father.     Annie  certainly,  for  she  is  wild  to  sec 

Mr. .     She  heard  so  much  of  him  this  summer,  that  I 

knew  she  would  hardly  forgive  us  if  she  found  he  had  been 
here,  without  our  letting  her  know  it.  I  thought  perhaps 
Papa  too  might  like  to  meet  him,  so  I  wrote  a  note,  asking 
him,  and  said  in  case  he  was  engaged,  that  any  of  the  rest 
of  them  who  chose  to  come  in  his  place,  might." 

Walter  was  now  thoroughly  discomposed,  but  he  felt 
that  it  was  ungracious  to  show  it,  though  Cora  could  not 
but  feel  rather  than  see  that  he  was  dissatisfied. 

She  was  sorry,  but  she  could  not  help  it ;  she  said  to 
herself  she  knew  her  sisters  would  have  been  not  only  dis- 
appointed, but  vexed ;  and  thought  it  very  "selfish,  (their 
favorite  epithet  of  displeasure)  in  Walter,  to  keep  his  great 
man  to  himself,"  and  that  he  should  encounter  their  blame, 
was  what  she  could  not  bear. 

So  they  came,  and  the  real  object  of  the  stranger's  visit 
was  obliged  to  be  deferred  until  after  their  withdrawal  from 
table,  and  two  or  three  hours  of  time  that  was  really  valu- 
able to  him,  was  spent  in  civilities  to  ladies  whom  he 
heartily  wished  at  home. 

Annie  and  Augusta  however,  were  charmed  with  their 
dinner,  and  as  they  sat  in  the  drawing  room  discussing 
matters  and  things,  one  of  them  happened  to  say  something 
about  "  next  summer  when  we  are  all  at  Newport,  Cora, 
we  will  do  so  and  so,"  to  which  Cora  answered, 

"  I  shall  not  go  again  to  Newport." 

"  Why  not  ?"  they  both  asked  almost  in  the  same  breath, 
"  I  am  sure  you  enjoyed  it  very  much  this  summer." 

"  Yes,  I  did,"  replied  Cora,  "but  I  find  it  is  too  far  away 
from  home  for  Walter.  He  was  not  comfortable  during 
my  absence.     Tliat  little  place  up  the  river  is  still  for  sale, 

9* 


102  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

and  he  is  so  anxious  to  purchase  it,  that  I  shall  not  object 
to  it  any  more." 

"  Heavens  !"  exclaimed  Annie,  "  how  Walter  does  hang 
on  to  an  idea,  when  he  once  gets  one  in  his  head." 

Cora  coloured  very  much  as  she  replied. 

"  You  do  not  know  how  uncomfortable  and  lonely," 

"  Oh  !"  interrupted  Augusta,  "Walter  likes  the  country, 
and  what  men  like  they  will  have,"  she  added  with  con- 
siderable vexation,  "  However  I  suppose  you  may  as  well 
yield  first  as  last,  for  I  observe  that  what  Walter  makes  up 
his  mind  to  do  in  the  beginning,  he  does  in  the  end,"  and 
so  they  passed  rapidly  on  to  other  things,  scarcely  knowing 
the  thorn  that  she  had  planted  in  her  sister's  heart. 

That  they  should  think  Walter  obstinate  and  selfish,  hurt 
her  deeply,  and  moreover  being  brought  up  in  the  family 
faith  of  their  infallibility,  the  painful  suspicion  that  Walter 
might  not  be  as  perfect  as  she  was  inclined  to  think  him 
when  left  to  herself,  disturbed  her  much.  Why  a  man 
should  be  deeemed  obstinate  and  selfish  in  carrying  out  his 
own  views  and  feelings,  in  preference  to  theirs,  when  they 
in  no  way  concerned  them,  never  occurred  to  her,  or  she 
might  have  found  that  the  question  bore,  as  most  questions 
do,  two  faces.  But  she  sighed  and  felt  as  she  frequently 
did,  after  being  with  her  own  family,  uncomfortable  and 
dispirited. 

She  loved  Walter,  and  she  loved  them.  She  wished  they 
could  think  more  alike.  She  could  not  bear  to  blame  him, 
and  yet  she  had  never  been  accustomed  to  think  them  in 
the  wrong.  She  was  too  young,  and  still  too  much  under 
the  influence  of  her  first  education,  to  know  where  the 
real  root  of  the  evil  lay. 

Had  Stanley  been  a  man  of  brilliant  abilities,  the  Sel- 
wyns  in  their  admiration  of  his  talents,  and  respect  for  his 
position,  would  have  recognised  his  rights  with  prompt  ac- 
quiescence. But  Walter  was  nothing  uncommon,  and  he 
felt  and  thought  differently  from  themselves ;  consequently 


FAMILY      INTERFERENCE.  103 

he  was  often  voted  stupid  and  selfish,  when  in  fact  they 
were  unreasonable  and  exacting. 

The  young  wife  who  is  thus  situated,  has  much  to  bear, 
of  which  she  scarcely  knows  the  origin  ;  and  the  brother-in- 
law  has  more,  which  he  may  struggle  against  as  he  will,  he 
hardly  knows  how  to  shake  off. 

Years  passed  on  in  prosperity  and  what  should  have 
been  peace,  peace  almost  undimmed,  for  the  clouds  that  fre- 
quently disturbed  her  serenity,  and  the  vexations  that  ruf- 
fled his  temper,  were  as  unnecessary  as  they  were  painful. 
And  years  did  elapse,  before  an  enlarged  knowledge  of  the 
world,  with  the  marriages  of  her  sisters,  and  other  domes- 
tic changes,  gave  her  a  fuller  and  freer  insight  of  the  rel- 
ative claims  and  duties  of  a  woman's  nearest  and  dearest 
connections,  and  then  she  recognised  in  all  its  bearings,  the 
influence  that  had  clouded  so  many  of  her  best  years,  m 
that  commonest  of  domestic  night-mares,  Family  Interfer- 
ence. 


THE    WATER    BEARER. 

BY    MRS.     L.     H.     SIGOLRNEY. 

I  SAW  a  child,  who  toward  his  cottage  home 

Two  water-buckets  bare.     The  winding  path 

Was  steep  and  rocky,  and  his  slender  arm 

Tax'd  to  its  utmost  power :  awhile  he  paused, 

Setting  his  burden  down,  just  where  the  way 

Grew  more  precipitous,  and  wip'd  his  brow 

With  his  worn  sleeve,  and  breath'd  refreshing  draughts 

Of  the  sweet  air,  while  still  the  summer  sun 

Flamed  o'er  his  forehead. — 

Then  another  boy 
Who  neath  a  poplar  in  a  neighbouring  field 
Sate  playing  with  his  dog,  in  cool  repose. 
Uprising  from  that  grassy  nook,  came  forth 
And  lent  a  ready  hand  to  aid  the  toil. 
So",  on  they  went  together,  grasping  firm 
The  heavy  buckets,  with  a  right  good  will. 
While  their  young  voices  blended,  clear  and  glad — 

— And  as  the  bee  inhales  from  humblest  flower 
Seen  by  the  way-side,  honey  for  her  hive, 
I  treasured  up  a  lesson,  and  when  eve 
Call'd  home  the  labouring  ox,  and  to  its  nest 
Warn'd  the  sweet  bird,  and  clos'd  the  lily's  cup, 
I  took  my  little  son  upon  my  knee 
And  told  him  of  the  water-bearer's  toil 
And  of  the  friendly  helper. — 
104 


THE     WATER     BEARER.  105 

When  his  eye 
Wax'd  large,  and  bright,  and  deeper  on  mine  fix'd,— 
Taking  the  story  to  his  inmost  thought, 
I  said,  "  My  child,— be  pitiful  to  all. 
And  cheer  the  weary  heart :  for  God  hath  sown 
In  thy  young  bosom,  seeds  of  sympathy, 
Whose  buds  are  virtues  and  their  fruit  for  heaven — 
Yes,  when  thou  art  a  man,  my  blessed  one, 
Keep  thy  fresh  spirit  open  to  the  woes 
Of  foreigner  and  stranger,  to  the  race 
Darken'd  by  Afric's  sun,  or  those  sad  tribes 
Who  bear  their  burdens  in  the  wilderness, 
Lone  exiles  from  the  forests  and  the  streams 
That  once  they  called  their  own. — 

With  bounteous  hand 
Help,  whomsoe'er  thou  canst.     So,  may'st  thou  find 
Succour  and  love,  in  thine  own  time  of  need. 
If  on  thy  heart  as  on  a  signet  ring 
Is  grav'd  that  motto  from  the  Book  Divine 
"  Bear  one  another's  burdens,  and  fulfil 
The  law  of  Christ." 


SABBATH    MORNING. 

BY   ROBERT   L.   WADE. 

Soft  as  the  step  of  the  timid  fawn 

By  the  side  of  the  sparkhng  rill, 
Cometh  the  gentle  Sabbath  dawn 

O'er  the  top  of  the  distant  hill ; 
And  the  sentinel  flowers  that  all  the  night 

Have  kept  their  vigils  in  grief, 
As  they  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  robes  of  hght, 
•     Glisten  with  tears  of  relief. 

With  the  spirit  that  once  came  down  like  a  dove, 

She  Cometh  commissioned  to  win 
With  offers  of  mercy  and  tokens  of  love. 

The  world  from  the  bondage  of  sin  ; 
And  the  stars  that  have  folio  w'd  her  footsteps  all  night, 

And  lit  up  her  path  to  earth, 
Sing  again  ere  they  take  their  heavenward  flight. 

As  they  sang  at  Creation's  birth. 


106 


THE    MOTHER'S    TRIAL. 


BY     SEBA     SMITH. 


Why  should  our  writers  of  romance,  whether  historical  or 
purely  imaginative,  look  to  foreign  countries  for  subjects, 
while  there  are  so  many  beautiful  passages  in  the  history 
of  our  own  country,  to  be  illustrated  ?  Reader,  have  pa- 
tience a  few  moments,  and  we  will  tell  thee  a  story  of  pio- 
neer life,  which,  however  bald  and  lifeless  may  be  the 
manner  of  its  recital,  nevertheless  has  truth  to  recommend 
it. 

At  the  close  of  the  revolutionary  war,  there  lived  at 
Middletown,  Connecticut,  a  man  by  the  name  of  Hugh 
White  ;  a  thrifty  yankee,  enterprising  and  well  to  do  in  the 
world.  By  some  means  or  other,  he  with  three  others  be- 
came the  joint  proprietors  of  a  tract  of  land  in  western 
New  York,  called  the  Sadaquada  patent,  situated  in  the 
valley  of  the  Mohawk.  Mr.  White  was  seized  with  the 
spirit  of  emigration,  and  determined  to  explore  this  new 
country,  then  a  deep  wilderness,  with  a  view  of  making  it 
his  future  home. 

An  agreement  having  been  entered  into  by  the  four  pro- 
prietors to  meet  on  the  land  in  the  summer  of  1784,  and 
make  a  survey  and  partition,  Mr.  White,  in  May  of  that 
year  took  with  him  four  sons,  grown  to  manhood,  a  daugh- 
ter and  daughter-in-law,  and  started  for  the  land  of  pro- 
mise. They  proceeded  to  New  York,  and  sailed  up  the 
Hudson  as  far  as  Albany  ;  there  crossing  the  carrying  place 

107 


1  OS  !•  H  E      F  0  U  N  T  A  I  N  . 

to  Schenectady,  they  procured  a  batteau,  and  ascended  the 
IMohawk  to  the  mouth  of  Sanquoit  creek.  Here  they 
pitched  their  tents,  and  set  about  surveying  and  dividing 
their  lands,  Uke  Abraham  and  Lot ;  one  agreeing  to  go  to 
the  right,  and  another  to  the  left. 

Mr.  White  having  got  his  portion  set  off,  marked  and 
spotted  his  lines,  set  lip  his  land-marks,  erected  a  log  cabin, 
and  commenced  clearing  away  the  forest.  In  the  following 
January,  he  returned  to  Connecticut,  and  brought  his  wife 
and  the  rest  of  his  family  to  their  new  home.  Other  settlers 
came  in  around  him,  and  in  four  years  the  settlement  was 
organized  under  the  name  of  Whitestown.  A  fact  is  stated 
with  regard  to  the  laying  out  of  Whitestown,  that  shows 
in  a  striking  degree  the  rapid  increase  of  population  and 
settlement  of  the  country.  At  the  time  spoken  of,  1788, 
when  the  town  was  first  organized,  it  was  bounded  on  the 
east  by  a  line  running  north  and  south,  to  the  hmits  of  the 
state,  and  including  all  the  state  lying  west  of  said  line. 
That  same  territory,  which  was  then  Whitestown,  contains 
now  more  than  a  million  of  inhabitants. 

As  the  country  became  settled  around  him  and  the  tide 
of  population  rolled  westward,  Mr.  White  became  a  citizen 
of  distinction,  and  for  many  years  filled  the  office  of  Judge 
in  Herkimer  and  Oneida  counties.  He  continued  to  reside 
at  Whitestown  till  his  death,  which  occurred  at  a  good  old 
age  in  1812. 

For  some  years  after  Mr.  White  established  his  residence 
at  Whitestown,  many  of  the  Oneida  tribe  of  Indians  con- 
tinued to  reside  in  the  vicinity.  Among  these  was  an  old 
chief  by  the  name  of  Han  Yerry,  who  resided  at  Oriskany, 
and  was  a  person  of  great  influence  in  his  tribe.  During 
the  war  of  the  revolution,  Han  Yerry  and  his  followers  had 
taken  sides  with  the  British;  but  after  the  struggle  was 
over,  they  held  a  friendly  intercourse  again  with  the  Amer- 
icans. Still  the  memory  of  their  former  hostility,  caused 
them  to  be  looked  upon  with  a  sort  of  dread  by  the  white 


THE    mother's    trial.  109 

settlers  in  the  neighbourhood,  who  were  careful  to  have 
their  doors  well  barred  at  night,  and  often  went  armed 
while  at  their  labours  in  the  field. 

On  a  pleasant  summer  day,  Mr.  White,  or  Judge  White, 
as  he  had  now  become,  was  amusing  himself  with  a  little 
granddaughter,  about  three  years  of  age,  who  was  running 
about  his  chair  as  playful  as  a  kitten,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  Han  Yerry  walked  deliberately  into  the  room. 
He  was  followed  by  his  squaw,  and  by  a  mulatto  woman, 
who  lived  with  him  as  a  sort  of  servant,  or  slave,  and  usu- 
ally acted  as  his  interpreter  in  his  intercourse  with  the  white 
people,  for  Han  had  not  learnt  to  talk  much  English.  The 
Judge,  who  always  treated  Han  with  respectful  attention 
whenever  he  met  him,  rose  and  gave  him  a  chair,  and  also 
invited  the  women  to  be  seated.  Little  Mary  clung  to  her 
grandfathers  knees,  and  when  he  sat  down,  crept  up  into 
his  lap,  where  half  trembling  with  fear,  she  sat  and  watched 
the  dark  eyes  and  brown  faces  of  the  visitors.  The  child's 
mother  was  attending  to  her  usual  work  about  the  room, 
while  Han  and  the  Judge  held  a  friendly  talk,  which  was 
carried  on  principally  by  the  interpretation  of  the  mulatto 
woman. 

After  glancing  a  little  at  the  former  hostilities  which  ex- 
isted between  the  Indians  and  the  white  settlers,  the  Judge 
urged  upon  the  Indian  warrior  the  importance  of  the  tribe's 
living  on  friendly  terms  with  the  whites,  and  keeping  good 
faith  with  them,  and  impressed  it  strongly  upon  him  that 
the  white  people  were  the  fast  friends  of  the  red  man. 

"  Are  you  true  my  friend  ?"  said  Han  Yerry,  fixing  his 
penetrating  eye  upon  the  Judge. 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  Judge,  "your  fast  friend,  Han,  and 
always  to  remain  so  while  we  live.  The  chain  of  our 
friendship  shall  always  be  bright ;  no  rust  shall  come  upon 
it,  and  its  links  shall  never  be  broken." 

"  Very  good,"  said  Han  Yerry,  "  you  shall  be  my  friend 

10 


110  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

while  the  grass  grows  and  the  rivers  run.  But  do  you  be- 
Ueve  Han  Yerry  is  your  friend?" 

"  Yes,  Han  I  beUeve  you  are,"  said  the  Judge,  "  I  have 
entire  confidence  in  your  friendship  and  good  faith  towards 
me  and  all  our  white  people." 

"  You  no  fraid  of  Han  Yerry,"  repeated  the  Indian,  still 
watching  with  eagle  eye,  the  countenance  of  the  Judge ; 
"  You  believe  sartain  Han  Yerry  is  your  friend  ?" 

"  Most  surely,"  said  the  Judge  with  emphatic  earnest- 
ness, "  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  o^  your  good  faith  and 
friendship." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Han,  "if  you  are  my  friend,  and  you 
believe  I  am  your  friend,  I  will  tell  you  what  I  want,  and 
then  I  shall  know  whether  you  speak  true  words," 

"  Well,  Han,  what  is  it  ?"  said  the  Judge. 

"  My  squaw,"  said  Han,  pointing  to  the  grandchild 
which  the  Judge  held  in  his  arms,  "  wants  to  take  that  little 
pappoose  home  with  us  to  night,  and  bring  her  back  to- 
morrow. If  we  are  both  friends,  you  will  now  show  me 
that  you  think  so,  and  speak  true." 

The  test  proposed,  was  very  different  from  what  the 
Judge  expected.  All  the  tender  feelings  of  the  grandfather 
were  at  once  roused.  He  felt  the  blood  mounting  to  his 
cheek,  and  summoned  all  the  powers  of  his  will,  to  avoid 
betraying  his  emotion.  The  request  had  imposed  on  him 
a  most  singular  and  dehcate  responsibility.  He  knew  the 
jealous  nature  of  the  savage,  and  the  necessity  of  appear- 
ing to  place  unlimited  confidence  in  him,  if  he  would  re- 
tain his  friendship.  He  felt  how  dangerous  it  might  be  to 
give  offence  to  the  Indian  chief,  and  through  him  probably 
to  his  whole  tribe.  But  on  the  other  hand,  could  he  risk 
the  life  of  his  darling  grandchild  in  the  hands  of  the  wild 
savages,  to  be  carried  away  alone  into  the  wilderness  ?" 

The  mother  of  the  httle  child,  who  was  busy  at  her 
work  about  the  house,  when  the  appalling  proposition  fell 
upon  her  ear,  started  as  if  she  had  been  stung  by  a  serpent. 


THE      mother's      trial.  Ill 

As  the  back  of  the  Indian  however  was  towards  her,  he 
did  not  perceive  it,  and  she  retired  into  the  next  room,  to 
endeavour  to  recover  from  her  agitation.  The  reason  of 
the  Judge  obtained  the  ascendency  over  the  feelings  of  the 
man,  and  appeaUng  with  unhesitating  confidence  to  the  In- 
dian's sense  of  honor  he  repUed. 

"  Yes,  Han,  you  shall  take  the  pappoose  home  with 
you ;  for  I  am  sure  you  will  deal  gently  with  the  tender 
flower,  and  will  return  it  safe  to-morrow." 

Han  Yerry  looked  gratified  at  the  decision,  and  after 
turning  the  conversation  for  a  few  minutes  upon  other 
topics,  and  partaking  of  some  refreshments,  he  prepared 
to  take  his  departure.  The  little  child  was  coaxed  and 
encouraged  till  she  yielded  herself  to  the  arms  of  the 
savages  without  much  apparent  fear.  But  it  was  with 
great  difficulty  the  mother  could  be  reconciled  to  the 
arrangement.  And  it  was  not  till  the  Judge  had  repre- 
sented to  her,  in  the  strongest  terms,  the  importance  of 
complying  with  the  proposition  of  the  Indian  chief,  and 
had  given  her  his  most  earnest  assurances  of  his  confi- 
dence in  the  Indian's  promises,  and  of  the  perfect  safety 
of  the  child,  that  she  yielded  a  reluctant  consent.  With 
moistened  eyes  and  a  throbbing  heart  she  watched  the 
group,  as  Han  Yerry  took  her  darling  child  and  placed 
it  upon  the  back  of  the  squaw,  and  the  little  party  left 
the  house,  and  walked  slowly  up  the  hill,  and  disap- 
peared in  the  woods. 

That  was  a  long  night  to  the  mother  of  that  little 
child.  In  vain  she  wooed  sleep  to  her  eyes  and  slumber 
to  her  eyelids,  but  they  came  not.  Twice  she  arose  and 
looked  out  from  the  window  upon  the  dark  woods  that 
lay  towards  Oriskany,  the  home  of  Han  Yerry  and  his 
tribe.  Her  heart  was  far  away  with  her  child  in  the 
wigwam  of  the  savage.  How  did  she  know  what  ter- 
rible fate  awaited  it  ?  How  could  she  tell  but  in  some 
wild  fit  of  phrenzy  they  had  offered  her  sweet  babe  a 


112  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

sacrifice  to  the  unknown  spirits  whom  they  worshipped? 
Ahiiost  she  fancied  she  could  see  her  writhing  in  torture, 
and  stretching  out  her  httle  hands  and  crying  to  her 
mother  for  help.  Every  breath  of  the  night-wind,  as  it 
came  from  the  dark  and  moaning  woods,  seemed  to  be 
laden  with  the  sobs  and  sighs  of  her  darling  child.  It 
was  a  long,  long  night  to  that  mother. 

"  Oft  to  the  east  her  weary  eyes  she  cast, 

And  wished  the  lingering  dawn  would  glimmer  forth  at  last." 

And  when  at  last  the  morning  broke,  and  the  bright  sun 
arose,  spreading  light  and  gladness  over  the  earth,  it 
brought  no  joy  to  her  heart,  for  it  did  not  restore  to  her 
the  sight  of  her  beloved  child.  The  family  were  called 
to  tlie  breakfast  table,  but  the  mother  could  not  eat. 
Pale  and  anxious,  her  eyes  were  still  turned  to  the  woods 
of  Oriskany,  The  Judge  endeavoured  to  sooth  her  agi- 
tated feelings,  by  assuring  her  of  his  confidence  in  the 
fidelity  of  Han  Yerry,  and  in  the  safety  and  welfare  of 
the  child. 

"  But,  father,"  said  the  mother,  with  quivering  lip,  "I 
have  been  looking  out  for  them  all  the  morning ;  what 
do  you  think  is  the  reason  they  don't  come  ?" 

"  Why,  my  child,"  said  the  Judge,  "  it  is  not  time  to 
look  for  them  yet.  It  is  but  just  past  the  breakfast  hour. 
The  movement  of  the  Indian  is  naturally  slow;  and, 
besides,  it  is  three  long  miles  to  Oriskany,  over  hill,  and 
vaUey,  and  brook,  and  meadow.  It  would  be  unreason- 
able to  look  for  them  before  njid-day.  Be  cheerful  and 
patient,  my  daughter,  and  beheve  me  all  will  yet  be  well." 

The  mother  for  a  time  was  quieted.  The  avocations 
of  the  house  and  the  rugged  farm  received  the  usual 
attention.  The  day  wore  on.  Nine  o'clock  had  gone 
by ;  ten  o'clock  came  and  went.  The  sun  rose  high  in 
the  heavens ;  the  mother  looked  often  at  the  watch, 
which  hung  over  the  fireplace,  and  often  at  the  sun  to 


THE      mother's     trial.  113 

satisfy  herself  that  the  watch  was  not  too  slow.  Ilcr 
yearning  bosom  heaved  and  her  heart  throbbed  with  in- 
creasing emotion.  Eleven  o'clock  stole  silently  by,  and 
at  last  the  sun  rested  upon  the  mark  on  the  floor,  wliich 
announced  that  it  had  reached  the  meridian  height.  Tlie 
mother's  eye  glanced  up  at  the  sun,  and  then  instinctively 
turned  toward  the  solemn  woods.  The  object  which  she 
longed  to  behold  was  no  where  to  be  seen,  and  her  heart 
sank  within  her. 

It  was  the  hour  of  dinner,  and  while  the  family  were 
seated  round  the  table,  the  mother  was  at  the  top  of  the 
house,  with  her  aching  eyes  bent  on  the  dark  forest  of 
Oriskany.  Again  the  reasoning  and  the  eloquence  of 
the  Judge  were  exerted  to  allay  her  agitation  and  give 
her  new  confidence. 

"  Take  a  little  refreshment,  my  daughter,"  said  he, 
"  and  be  of  good  cheer  ;  all  will  yet  be  well.  It  is  only 
mid-day ;  no  time  is  lost  yet.  Han  Yerry  loves  a  joke. 
It  may  be  he  delays  a  little  on  purpose  to  try  our  pa- 
tience and  our  confidence  in  his  fidelity.  I  should  not 
have  been  afraid  to  risk  my  own  life  in  his  hands  in  like 
manner ;  if  I  had  been,  I  would  not  have  risked  that  of 
the  child.  I  have  the  fullest  confidence  that  the  babe 
will  be  returned  in  safety." 

The  mother  "  went  her  household  ways"  again  with 
feelings  somewhat  appeased,  but  still  with  a  heavy  heart. 
The  afternoon  wore  away.  Often  she  looked  up  the 
road,  but  no  friendly  Indian,  no  child  was  seen  coming 
from  the  woods.  She  looked,  and  she  looked  again;  the 
sun  had  now  descended  almost  to  the  tops  of  the  trees. 
She  was  seized  with  a  sudden  tremor ;  her  heart  was 
swollen  higher  and  higher,  till  it  was  like  to  burst  with 
the  mighty  torrent  of  her  feelings.  Her  eyes  streaming 
with  tears,  she  rushed  to  meet  the  Judge  as  he  came 
from  the  field. 

"  Father,"  said  she,  "  I  must  go  this  minute  to  Oris- 
10* 


114  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

kany.  Oh,  my  child,  my  child,  1  shall  never  see  her 
again  alive  !  Why  did  I  let  her  go  ?  Those  creatures 
will  never  bring  her  back.  Father,  will  you  go  with 
me  ?  I  can  stand  it  no  longer  ;  I  must  set  out  this  minute 
for  Oriskany." 

The  Judge  was  himself  now  filled  with  no  ordinary 
degree  of  anxiety.  For  the  last  hour  he  had  been  walk- 
ing on  the  high  ground  in  the  field,  and  watching  the  road 
for  the  appearance  of  Han  Yerry,  Still  he  dissembled 
his  anxiety  before  his  daughter,  ond  with  a  confident 
tone  urged  her  to  be  comforted,  for  there  was  time 
enough  yet.  Were  they  to  start  for  Oriskany,  they 
would  not  probably  go  half  a  mile  before  they  would 
meet  the  faithful  chief  returning  with  his  precious  charge. 
Then  the  whole  object  of  the  affair  would  be  defeated. 
The  chief  would  perceive  their  want  of  confidence,  and 
very  probably  take  offence.  But  to  pacify  his  daughter, 
the  Judge  promised  that  if  they  did  not  make  their  ap- 
pearance in  half  an  hour,  he  would  take  his  men  with 
him  and  go  himself  to  Oriskany,  to  see  what  had  become 
of  the  child. 

But  few  words  were  spoken  during  that  half  hour. 
All  eyes  were  turned  to  the  woods,  and  all  hearts  beat 
heavily.  Just  before  the  half  hour  expired,  the  mother, 
whose  anxiety  had  sharpened  her  senses  to  the  greatest 
acuteness,  exclaimed,  "  there  is  somebody  coming  out  of 
the  woods."  A  second  look  and  a  moment  more  con- 
vinced all  that  it  was  the  form  of  Han  Yerry  himself. 
Immediately  behind  him  appeared  his  squaw,  bearing  a 
burden  upon  her  back.  It  must  undoubtedly  be  the 
beloved  child.  Joy  was  now  lighting  up  every  counte- 
nance. But  as  the  group  approached,  a  strange  misgiv- 
ing again  seized  the  minds  of  the  mother  and  grand- 
father. The  burden  borne  by  the  squaw  appeared  indeed 
to  be  a  child,  but  to  their  painful  astonishment  it  was  an 
Indian  child  !     What  had  become  of  their  own  darling  ? 


THE     mother's     trial.  115 

Had  it  been  killed,  or  secreted  awny  ?  And  was  an  In- 
dian child  to  be  given  them  in  return  ?  The  mother  was 
about  sinking  to  the  earth  with  the  overwhelming  ap- 
prehension, when  the  little  child  was  set  down  upon  the 
ground,  at  two  or  three  rods  distance,  and  came  running 
with  outstretched  hands  to  its  mother,  dressed  out  in  full 
Indian  costume,  and  transformed  in  appearance  to  a  per- 
fect little  miniature  squaw.  The  kisses  and  caresses  that 
were  showered  upon  that  little  squaw  were  not  a  few. 

Han  Yerry  was  satisfied  with  the  faith  and  confidence 
of  his  white  neighbors,  and  forever  after  remained  their 
true  and  steady  friend.  The  Jittle  child  of  our  narrative 
grew  up  to  womanhood,  and  in  due  time  married  a  gen- 
tleman by  the  name  of  Nathaniel  Eells,  of  Whitesbo- 
rough,  N.  Y.  She  afterwards  became  a  widow,  and 
resided  in  the  State  of  Missouri,  where  we  know  not  but 
she  is  living  yet.  The  traveller  who  may  chance  to  pass 
through  Whitesborough,  by  looking  into  the  graveyard 
may  see  a  monumuent  with  the  following  inscription  : 

"  Here  sleep  the  mortal  remains  of  Hugh  White,  who 
was  born  5th  of  February,  1733,  at  Middletown,  Con- 
necticut, and  died  16th  of  April,  1812.  In  the  year  1784 
he  removed  to  Sadaquate,  now  Whitesborough,  where 
he  was  the  first  white  inhabitant  in  the  State  of  New 
York,  west  of  the  German  settlers  on  the  Mohawk.  He 
was  distinguished  for  energy  and  decision  of  character, 
and  may  justly  be  regarded  as  a  Patriarch,  who  led  the 
children  of  New  England  into  the  wilderness.  As  a 
magistrate,  a  citizen,  and  a  man,  his  character  for  truth 
and  integrity  was  proverbial.  This  humble  monument 
is  reared  and  inscribed  by  the  affectionate  partner  of  hi? 
joys  and  his  sorrows,  May  15,  1826." 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  TEMPERANCE. 

BY    MRS.    C.   H.   ESLING. 

Gloomily  fell  the  evening  shades, 
Around  a  wretched  dwelling, 

Where  tearful  eyes  with  grief  were  wet. 
And  hearts  with  woe  were  swelling. 

The  frantic  cry  of  wild  despair, 
And  broken  hearted  weeping, 

Within  one  dimly  lighted  room 
Companionship  were  keeping. 

There,  prostrate  on  his  lowly  bed, 

A  wretched  man  was  lying 
Calling  on  God,  with  frantic  cries. 

To  save  his  soul  from  dying. 

And  woman,  with  a  wifelike  love, 

Was  earnestly  imploring 
God's  aid,  for  that  degraded  one 

She  could  not  help  adoring. 

And  little  children,  with  a  face 

Of  childish  beauty  darken'd 
(By  that  fell  agency  of  Sin) 

In  wonder  mutely  hearken'd. 


116 


THE     TRIUMPH     OP     TEMPERANCE.  11 

And  who  were  they,  that  maniac  man, 
That  wife,  those  children  kneeling 

Around  the  dying  drunkard's  bed 
With  hearts  of  tortur'd  feeling  ! 

He  once  had  stood  (in  other  years) 

Proud  in  his  manly  glory. 
With  intellect,  and  noble  mind, 

To  live  in  after  story. 

With  shining  attributes  of  power 

From  heaven's  high  throne  extending — 

He  stood,  as  stands  a  bulwark  strong. 
The  Citadel  defending. 

But  vain,  and  weak,  the  wily  foe 

With  bland  temptation  wooing, 
Offer'd  the  Cup,  and  his  own  hand 

Thus  sealed  his  own  undoing. 

But  must  he  perish — must  he  die. 

Thus,  in  his  degradation  ? 
Will  no  soft  pleading  voice  be  heard 

For  his  too  great  temptation  ? 

Gentler,  and  gentler,  beat  his  pulse, 

As  the  pale  flickering  beaming 
Of  the  expiring  taper's  light 

Was  through  the  midnight  gleaming. 

But  morning  broke,  his  wasted  frame 

Was  still  the  soul  enshrining. 
And  rainbow  hopes  of  days  to  come 

Were  thro'  his  slumbers  twining. 


118  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

The  Angel,  and  the  Tempter,  then 
Were  silent  conflict  waging — 

'Till  sin  fell  powerless,  and  the  light 
Of  Temperance  broke  presaging. 

Now  plenty  with  her  ample  store 
His  every  want  supplying. 

Relieves  the  Beggar  at  his  gate, 
And  checks  the  mourner's  sighing. 

No  longer  weak,  supine,  and  lost, 
But  with  a  heart  of  daring. 

He  stands  amid  his  fellow  men. 
With  proud,  and  noble  bearing. 

For  gentle  ministry  had  ope'd 
A  pathway  bright  to  heaven, 

And  glorious  promises  of  life 

The  Temperance  Pledge  hath  given  ! 


M  A  'fi  "S  ii  ^i  IS  ~Jf' : 


LE  PORTE- BOUQUET, 

OR 

GENIUS  AND  INGENUITY; 

AN  INCIDENT  IN  TASHIONABLE   LIFE. 

BY  FRANCES  S.    OSGOOD. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"Oh!  sweet,  pale  Margaret ! 

Oh!  rare,  pale  Margaret! 
From  the  evening-lighted  wood, 
From  the  westward-winding  flood, 
From  all  things  outward,  you  have  won 
A  tearful  grace,  as  tho'  you  stood 
Between  the  rainbow  and  the  sun." — ^Tenntson. 

A  RARE  and  queenly  creature  was  Margaret  Leslie,  with 
her  dark  blue  "  luminous  eyes,"  and  the  superb  hair  that 
swept  in  wavy  masses  round  her  brow.  She  had  been 
passing  a  few  weeks  in  the  country,  with  a  fair  cousin 
of  hers — sweet  little  Lizzie  Leroy.  And  the  two  beauti- 
ful girls  stood  at  the  white  gate  of  the  pretty  cottage, 
clasped  in  a  farewell  embrace,  for  the  carriage  was  wait- 
ing to  convey  our  heroine  to  the  neighbouring  city.  It 
was  a  graceful  and  picturesque  tableau — Lizzie  in  her 
girlish  frock  of  white  muslin,  and  Margaret  in  a  dark 

119 


120  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

travelling  dress,  with  a  straw  hat  hanging  on  her  arm, 
bending  that  noble  form  till  her  pale  cheek  rested  amid 
the  golden-hued  curls  of  her  younger  companion. 

Suddenly  Lizzie  withdrew  from  her  arms,  and  searched 
eagerly  in  the  little  garden  for  a  flower,  as  a  parting 
token  of  tenderness ;  but  the  search  was  vain,  and  Mar- 
garet, who  had  watched  her  with  a  loving  smile,  as  she 
flitted  like  a  sylph  beneath  the  grape-vines,  drew  out  her 
pencil  and  hastily  wrote  on  one  of  the  palings  of  the 
gate  the  following  impromptu : 

"  You  would  speak  your  farewell  by  some  beautiful  flower, 
And  you  grieve  that  none  bloom  in  the  sad  autumn  bower; 
But  while,  with  Love's  summer,  your  sunny  heart  glows, 
Ah  !  do  not  regret  it ! — the  wish  was  a  Rose  ! " 

And  by  the  way,  speaking  of  impromptus,  it  was  about 
Lizzie's  little  hand,  playfully  placed  one  day  before 
Margaret's  magnificent  eyes,  that  a  graceful  jeu  desprit 
was  written  upon  the  instant,  by  one  who  made  no  pre- 
tensions to  the  name  of  poet : 

"  Those  radiant  eyes,  that  charm  the  soul, 
Fear  not  that  tiny  hand's  control ; — 
The  snow-flake  melts  before  the  sun  ; — 
The  snow-flake  and  the  hand  are  one !" 

Were  ever  two  women,  at  once,  so  skilfully  complimented 
within  the  compass  of  a  quatrain  ? 


LE     PORTE-BOUQUET.  121 


CHAPTER    II. 

"  Unworthy  all  the  homage  thou 

Art  living  to  secure, 
Unlovely  in  thy  inner  life, 
Though  outwardly  so  pure! 

"  Thine  eyes  are  full  of  light,  lady,— 

I  would  they  were  less  bright; 
For  then  the  serpents  shining  there, 

Might  never  pain  my  sight. 

"  I  would  that  they  were  sometims  seen 

To  shed  repentant  tears 
O'er  all  the  ruin  of  thy  heart, 

O'er  all  the  blight  of  years." 

The  lady  Cleopatra  W was  a  very  remarkable  per- 
son. With  a  weak  brain  and  weaker  heart,  the  homage 
paid  to  her  beauty  and  grace  had  turned  the  one  and  com- 
pletely hardened  the  other.  Yet,  gifted  with  consummate 
art  and  a  wonderful  ingenuity — without  a  ray  of  genius, — 
(how  often  in  this  superficial  world  are  the  glow-worm 
sparks  of  the  one  mistaken  for  the  starry  radiance  of  the 
other!)  she  contrived  to  pass  in  a  certain  set  for  a  high- 
souled  and  intellectual  woman.  But  her  task  must  have 
been  a  painful  one ;  for,  to  those  who  watched  her  at  a  dis- 
tance, untrammelled  and  undeceived  by  her  allurements, 
her  whole  existence  seemed  to  be  a  series  of  petty  and 
mean  manoeuvres  for  power, — and  she  sometimes  stooped 
so  low  to  conquer,  that  it  was  with  difficulty  she  regained 
her  equilibrium.  She  had  in  her  train  a  dreamer,  who 
might  have  attained  some  celebrity  as  a  poet,  had  he  not 
lavished  the  incense  of  his  intellect  upon  a  shrine  so 
poor  that  the  very  offering  was  degraded  thereby.  This 
person,  a  simple-hearted,  well-meaning  man,  lent  him- 
self, with  an  unaccountable  blindness  to  her  schemes  ; — 
and  with  a  few  high-sounding,  cant  phrases  of  his  at  her 
disposal — phrases  which  he  had  repeated  so  often  that 
he  came  at  last  to  believe  the  sentiments  they  pourtrayed 

II 


122  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

his  own, — with  these,  I  say,  and  now  and  then  a  stray- 
waif  of  unclaimed  poetry,  Avhich  she  greedily  appropri- 
ated and  showed  as  written  by  herself,  it  is  not  surpris- 
ing that  she  dazzled  the  weak,  and  deluded  the  credulous, 
to  her  very  small  heart's  content.  Then  she  had  a  way 
of  flattering  each  new  individual  admirer,  (aware  that  he 
could  not  fail  to  hear  abroad  stories  to  her  disadvantage,) 
with  the  idea  that  to  him  alone  had  love  and  sympathy 
unveiled  that  inner,  noble  nature,  which  pride  and  lofty 
disdain  concealed  from  the  imapprociating  world.  This 
was  the  crowning  triumph  of  her  consummate  tact,  and 
with  this  she  victimized  many  a  heart  that  was  worthy 
of  a  better  fate.  It  has  been  wisely  said,  that  hypocrisy 
is  the  involuntary  homage  which  vice  pays  to  virtue. 
How  must  that  modest  and  retiring  goddess  have  been 
overwhelmed  by  the  perpetual  worship  of  the  lady  Cleo- 
patra ! 

In  person,  she  was  very  tall  and  very  stout : — her  should- 
ers were  high,  her  neck  was  short ;  yet  she  could  assume 
at  will  a  certain  voluptuous  languor  of  attitude,  which 
easily  passed  for  grace. — Her  face  was  childishly  round  and 
plump,  with  hair  and  mouth  whose  loveliness  was  indis- 
putable— a  singularly  bewitching  smile — smah  eyes  of 
greyish  green,  and  a  "forehead  vacant  of  all  glorious 
gems."  Yet  was  her  manner,  when  she  wished  to  please, 
so  affable,  so  caressing,  so  inexpressibly  alluring, — that  few 
could  at  first  resist  her.  Coarse  and  mean  in  mind  and 
heart,  illiterate,  uncultivated,  shocking  at  times  the  modest 
and  sensitive  of  her  own  sex  by  her  astounding  vulgarity 
of  language  ;  yet  so  enchanting  when  she  chose, — what  an 
enigma  she  was  ! 

The  lady  Cleopatra,  was  dressing  with  unusual  care  for 
a  party  to  which  a  newly  arrived  poet, — the  poet  of  the 
day — ^had  been  invited,  especially  to  meet  her. — A  curious 
wreath  composed  of  those  brilliant  insects  of  green  and  gold, 
which  illumine  the  dense  forests  of  the  South,  glanced  like 


LE      PORTE-BOUQUET.  123 

a  chain  of  gems  amid  tlie  soft  braids  of  her  kixuriant  hair. 
Her  sultana  form  was  robed  in  dark  green  velvet,  and  the 
least  possible  touch  of  rouge  relieved  the  sallow  hue  of  her 
cheek. 

The  neck  of  her  dress  was  somewhat  low, — its  sleeves 
were  somewhat  high,  but  Fashion  sanctioned  that,  and  the 
lady  Cleopatra  was  a  privileged  character. 

On  her  toilette  table  lay  some  gorgeous  flowers,  sent  to 
her  by  the  said  poet  for  the  occasion,  on  the  strength  of  a 
former  brief  interview  during  which  she  had  made  a  certain 
impression,  which  it  was  evident  he  had  not  forgotten. 
How  proudly  her  lip  curled  in  anticipated  triumph,  as  she 
arranged  them  in  her  costly  ^o;7e-5otf<7t<e^,  gleaming  with 
gems  and  gold,  a  superb  toy  fresh  from  Paris  upon  which 
she  especially  prided  herself  Had  she  known  that  another 
and  a  fairer  had  received,  from  the  same  hand,  the  same 
blooming  and  fragrant  token  of  remembrance,  she  would 
have  felt  less  secure  of  conquest. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"But  day  by  day  ihe  flimsy  veil  grows  thin 
And  clearer  shows  the  worthless  waste  within; 
And  one  by  one  the  idolaters  resign 
The  wavering  fire  of  their  Phihelion's  shrine." 

The  soiree  had  commenced.  Our  poet  stood  beside  the 
lady  Cleopatra  somewhat  ennuyee  by  her  flattering  ex- 
pressions of  gratitude  for  his  lovely  gift,  and  of  admiration 
for  his  last  poem,  when  a  sudden  stir  and  murmur  near  the 
door  attracted  their  attention  towards  it.  A  group  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen  were  entering — among  whom  was  conspic- 
uous Margaret  Leslie  in  all  the  glory  of  her  intellectual 
grace — in  all  the  delicate,  yet  radiant  bloom  of  her  une- 
qualled beauty.  She  looked  like  a  Greek  dryad  fresh  from 
the  woods ;  for  a  garland  of  many-coloured  autumn  leaves 


124  THEFOUNTAIN. 

defined  the  pure  and  graceful  contour  of  her  head,  and  in 
her  hand  she  held  a  rare  cluster  of  flowers,  arranged  with 
perfect  taste,  not  in  a  vase  of  rubies,  emerald  and  gold ;  but 
in  nature's  own  porte-bouquet — a  magnificent  calla — over 
the  sculptured  edge  of  whose  exquisite  cup  drooped  a  few, 
fairy,  crimson-tinted  bells  contrasting  brilliantly  with  the 
snow-white  leaf  that  sustained  them. 

The  lady  Cleopatra  was  fond  of  complaining  in  a  lofty 
tone  of  the  littleness,  the  petty  jealousies,  which  constantly 
annoyed  her  in  her  own  sex  ;  but  had  any  one  of  her  nu- 
merous admirers  happened  to  notice  the  almost  demoniac 
expression  which  deformed  her  exquisite  lip  at  that  moment, 
the  thought  might  have  occurred  to  them,  that  it  is  not 
always  they  who  talk  most  concerning  their  abhorrence  of 
such  feelings,  who  are  least  infected  by  them. 

In  a  voice  trembling  with  restrained  spite,  yet  sweet  and 
bland  as  Hypocrisy  could  make  it,  she  said, — "  Do  you 
know  Miss  Leslie  ?  How  well  she  is  looking  !  It  is  such  a 
pity — is  it  not  ? — that  with  all  that  talent  and  beauty  '  she 
has  no  heart !'  I  was  very  fond  of  her  once  ;  but  I  soon 
discovered  that  I  was  wasting  all  my  tenderness,  and  I  gave 
her  up.  And  yet  I  cannot  but  envy  her  sometimes  her 
want  of  sensibility." 

By  how  trifling  an  incident  may  the  destiny  of  a  life  be 
decided  !  The  sight  of  his  graceful  gift,  so  tastefully,  so  ap- 
propriately disposed,  enchanted  the  poet-heart  of ■ 

and  to  the  exceeding  disappointment  of  his  fair  neighbour, 
who  saw  herself  in  all  her  splendour  of  attire,  in  all  her 
panoply  of  fashionable  attractions,  at  once  and  completely 
eclipsed,  by  the  dignified  simplicity  displayed  in  the  dress 
and  manner  of  her  beautiful  rival, — he  devoted  the  rest  of 
the  evening  to  Margaret  Leslie. 

This  happened  only  last  week,  dear  reader,  and  that 
veracious  though  rather  talkative  old  lady  Madam  Report 
already  positively  affirms  that  they  are  to  be  married  in  a 
few  months.     At  all  events,  of  one  fact,  I  myself  am  cogni- 


LE      PORTE-BOUQUET.  125 

sant — that  the  very  next  morning,  Miss  Leslie  received  the 
following  lines  entitled 

THE   FLOWER  SYLPH'S  PORTE -BOUQUET. 

'T  would  have  fitted  a  fairy  or  wood-nymph  wild, — 
That  delicate  fancy — thou  dreaming  child  ! 
Did  they  pray  to  thy  heart  from  their  balmy  bowers  1 
Did  they  sing  thee  a  hymn — those  pleading  flowers  1 
And  thus  did  it  flow — with  its  cadence  low — 
Like  the  music  sweet — in  the  measured  beat — 
Of  a  playful  fountain's  silver  feel  ? — 

— "  Aye  !  gather  us  still  with  your  pure,  white  hands, 

And  weave  our  beauty  in  blooming  bands ! 

But  oh!  by  the  flower-like   truth  and  grace. 

That  fill  thy  spirit  and  light  thy  face, 

Imprison  us  not — the  frail — the  gay, — 

As  Fashion's  votaries  coldly  do, 

In  a  cage  as  cold  and  hard  as  they. 

The  jewel-light  of  a.  porte-bouquet 

Too  soon  would  wither  our  bloom  and  dew !" 

'Twas  thus  they  sang — and  lo !  to  the  sound 

Of  a  magical  melody  pealing  round, 

A  flower-sylph  came  in  her  white  canoe — 

The  curved  Calla  of  spotless  hue — 

And  moored,  by  the  violet's  bank  of  bloom. 

Her  graceful  bark  in  its  faint  perfume. 

And  as  she  flew  from  her  golden  seat, 

A  zephyr  bore  to  thy  pausing  feet. 

The  beautiful  shallop  in  tender  play, 

And  whispered — "  Here  is  a  porte-bouquet !" 


11 


QUAFFING. 

BY   THOMAS  G.   SPEAR. 

You  ask  what  I  drink  ?  By  the  laugh  in  your  eye, 

I  suppose  you  would  say  I  was  fond  of  old  wine, — 
That  a  jolly  red  bumper  I  would  not  deny, 

Or  refuse  a  libation  when  summon'd  to  dine  : — 
Not  so — for  the  fluid  that  falls  from  the  skies. 

And  flows  from  the  fountains  is  dearer  to  me, 
Than  any  that  ever  gave  Bacchus  bleer'd  eyes, 

Or  rous'd  up  a  spirit  of  mutinous  glee. 

The  juice  that  I  love  has  its  source  in  the  spring, 

And  as  pure  is  its  current  and  bright  as  you  please  ; — 
'Tis  the  cherishing  friend  of  each  beautiful  thing, 

And  a  balm  to  the  languishing  frame  of  disease. 
It  poureth  a  cooling  and  healthful  salute 

The  feverish  lips  and  the  palate  along, 
And  the  wine-bibber  dares  not  its  virtues  dispute. 

Or  hold  it  unworthy  the  tribute  of  song. 

Not  a  humming  bird  darts  from  its  nest  to  a  flower, 

But  finding  it  honeyless  turneth  away, 
While  man,  with  a  nectar  that  waiteth  each  hour. 

From  icy  December  to  blossoming  May, 
Still  clings  to  the  achesome  and  fiery  draughts 

Of  the  imp  of  the  bottle — the  worm  of  the  still — 
126 


QUAFFING.  127 

And  drinks,  and  drinks  deep,  and  deliriously  laughs 
At  the  pleasing  damnation  of  every  thrill. 

Yet  water,  sweet  water,  he  may  not  resign. 

The  boon  of  the  fountains — the  cheerer  of  day — 
'Twas  given  to  bless  him — 'twas  given  to  shine, 

And  the  rainbow  was  born  in  its  beautiful  spray. 
It  is  dear  mito  life  as  the  dew  to  the  rose. 

Refreshing  the  thirsty  and  weary  of  heart ; — 
Then  away  with  the  wine-cup  whose  red  hues  disclose, 

Where  Nature  first  blush'd  at  the  triumph  of  Art. 


THE  FUNERAL.— A  CITY   SKETCH. 


BY   JULIAN   CRAMER. 


I  KNOW  of  no  sight  more  heart-rending  than  that  sometimes 
presented  by  a  funeral  procession  returning  from  the  place 
of  interment.  I  say  sometimes,  for  we  dwellers  in  cities 
too  often  gaze  on  such  scenes,  when  the  pomp  and  pageant- 
ry with  which  they  are  invested  serve  to  destroy  or  greatly 
weaken  the  moral  effect  they  should  alwa^^^s  produce.  I 
regret  the  destruction  of  the  good,  old  fashioned,  simple 
custom  of  my  youth — when  a  whole  mourning  community, 
with  solemn  pace,  attended  the  coffin  to  the  quiet  and  re- 
tired burying-ground — and  as  sincerely  lament  the  substitu- 
tion, at  the  present  day,  of  the  fashionable  promenades  to 
the  courtly  Halls  of  Death. 

During  a  long  residence  in  various  cities,  I  have  scarcely 
ever  witnessed  the  performance  of  funeral  ceremonies,  with- 
out being  painfully  conscious  that,  the  immediate  friends 
of  the  deceased  alone  excepted,  those  engaged  in  them 
were  utterly  careless  of  what  had  brought  them  together  ; 
and  often  has  it  been  my  lot  to  witness  demeanour,  and  to 
hear  conversation,  which  would  be  morally  admissible  only 
amid  the  ranks  of  a  political  festival. 

What  strangely  constituted  creatures  are  we,  that  we  can 
forget,  at  such  times,  that  the  same  disposition  awaits  our 
own  spiritless  bodies — and  that  the  same  careless  footsteps 
128 


THE      FUNERAL.  129 

will  bring  those  behind  us,  who,  though  calling  themselves 
our  friends,  will  discourse  with  each  other  on  secular  news, 
or  perchance  the  last  novel,  while  before  their  very  eyes 
moves  the  slow  hearse  that  bears  us  to  our  graves  ! 

If  thus  regardless  of  the  dead,  how  little  must  they  re- 
gard the  silent  demand  of  the  mourners  for  sympathy ! 
Who  thinketh  of  those  whose  sable  weeds  are  but  faint 
emblems  of  the  darkness  that  hath  fallen  on  their  souls  ? 
and  there  are  always  such  at  a  funeral :  never  man  died 
and  was  buried  without  leaving  some  one  to  mourn.  The 
ceremony  once  over,  who  followeth  the  broken-hearted  to 
their  desolate  dwelling  ?  Wlio  gazeth  on  the  stricken  soul 
when  the  bitterness  of  death  is  on  it  ?  No  one — no  one. 
The  sufferer  must  bear  his  griefs  alone  :  at  such  an  hour 
as  this  nothing  comes  between  him  and  his  God. 

But  I  did  not  intend  to  write  a  homily  on  Death :  such 
an  undertaking  were  time  vainly  spent.  If  the  living  re- 
gard not  the  dead,  neither  will  they  what  relateth  to  the 
dead.  These  reflections,  however,  are  appropriate  to  the 
incident  they  now  introduce. 

Accident  led  me,  a  few  months  since,  to  a  house  in  the 
upper  part  of  the  city,  from  whence,  as  I  approached  it,  a 
bier  was  being  borne  by  four  men.  As  they  passed  on, 
they  were  followed,  first,  by  a  single  man,  dressed  in  the 
deepest  black.  He  seemed  to  be  about  thirty  years  of  age, 
and  his  features  and  whole  bearing  gave  evidence  of  na- 
tural and  cultivated  powers.  There  was  something  about 
his  appearance,  however,  that,  without  being  sinister,  was 
not  easily  to  be  read.  A  practised  physiognomist  would 
perhaps  have  said  that  there  was  an  ambitious  spirit  that 
had  either  soared  too  high,  or  had  failed  in  its  Icarus'  flight 
and  fallen  again  to  the  plains  of  mediocrity.  Such,  I  after- 
wards learned,  had  been  the  case. 

Behind  him — the  only  mourner — came  a  small  train, 
chiefly  of  men,  who  relieved  the  original  bearers  on  their 


130  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

way  to  the  cemetery.  There  was  exceeding  plainness  and 
simplicity  in  all  the  appointments,  and  the  scene  brought  to 
mind  so  vividly  many  similar  ones  of  my  youth,  that  I 
could  not  forbear  joining  the  little  band  and  sharing  their 
melancholy  journey.  On  our  way  I  learned  the  particulars 
of  the  case. 

The  solitary  mourner  had  been  a  husband  and  a  father, 
but  was  such  no  longer.  The  coffin  contained  both  his 
wife  and  child,  and  he  was  alone  upon  the  earth.  Much 
was  told  me  of  his  history,  which  I  need  not  relate  here.  I 
watched  him  closely,  as  we  passed  on,  and  could  distinctly 
perceive  him  shudder  as  we  entered  the  grounds  where  he 
was  to  leave  his  treasure. 

Not  until  we  reach  this  crisis  do  we  fully  realize  what 
Death  has  done.  We  then  feel,  for  the  first  time,  that  the 
separation  is  perfect.  The  spirit  is  sustained  by  a  faint, 
mysterious  idea,  amounting  almost  to  hope,  until  the  yawn- 
ing grave,  open  to  receive  the  loved  one  to  its  dark  bosom, 
blots  it  out  forever. 

We  lowered  into  the  deep  vault  the  coffin  containing  its 
double  burden :  the  wife  and  the  mother — who  had  been 
in  those  relations  all  that  the  words  can  imply,  and  the  babe 
on  her  bosom — whose  advent  had  been  waited  and  hoped 
for  as  for  the  coming  of  some  promised  star,  and  whose  little 
light  had  gone  out  with  the  first  breath  of  air  that  sought 
to  sustain  it  with  its  soft  kisses.  Speedily  the  shapely 
mound  grew  over  them — and  all  was  done.  Solemnly  we 
left  the  sacred  enclosure.  The  wifeless  husband  and  the 
childless  father !  who  shall  portray  his  desolation  ?  The 
grave  had  claimed  and  received  his  all.  There  was  that  in 
his  attitude,  for  he  could  scarcely  be  said  to  walk,  which 
plainly  betrayed  that  his  spirit  was  crushed,  and  that  all 
thought  was  very  agony.  Alas  for  those  who  at  such  an 
hour  have  no  consolation  save  what  they  can  glean  from 
this  miserable  world ! 


THE      FUNERAL.  131 

Here  usually  endeth  the  mission  of  the  attendants  ol"  fu- 
nerals, but  we  will  follow  the  sulferer  farther. 

He  enters  his  home — home,  alas !  no  longer,  for  she  who 
made  it  dear  is  not  there  to  greet  his  footsteps.  He  wan- 
ders sadly  through  the  dismal  apartments,  and  every  thing 
he  sees  but  adds  to  the  poignancy  of  his  grief,  for  every 
thing  speaks  of  her.  Night  comes,  and  sleep  refuscth  its 
gentle  ministrations :  the  dear  head  wont  to  be  pillowed  on 
his  bosom  now  resteth  where  ?  he  groans  as  he  remembers 
where.  He  heareth  every  stroke  of  the  clock  :  every  nerve 
is  painfully  acute  :  every  sound  reverberates  with  thrilling 
distinctness  on  his  sensitive  ear.  If,  for  a  few  brief  mo- 
ments, he  loseth  his  animal  consciousness,  it  is  only  that  his 
mind  may  wander  in  a  world  where  all  is  dim  and  unsatis- 
fying and  the  tortures  of  returning  sensation  are  enhanced 
by  the  quietude  of  temporary  forgetfulness.  The  passage 
of  time  may  and  doth  relieve  him  of  this  incessant  burden, 
but,  live  as  long  as  he  may,  it  will  often  return  with  all  its 
original  vividness  and  power. 

Tell  me,  ye  who  have  endured  this  fearful  ordeal,  have  I 
not  written  truly  ? 

But,  in  this  particular  case,  there  was — oh  that  I  have  to 
relate  it ! — an  additional  ingredient  in  the  cup  of  bitterness 
drank  that  night  by  the  lonely  sufferer — a  cup  that  must 
ever  be  at  his  lips  so  long  as  life  endureth.  Turn  the 
matter  as  he  would — as  he  will — his  tortured  spirit  writhed, 
and  ever  must  writhe,  under  the  horrible  consciousness  that 
he  himself  was  the  murderer  of  the  wife  of  his  bosom  ! 
Reformed  though  he  was,  and  is,  it  is  but  too  certain  that 
the  long  years  of  suffering  she  endured — all  owing  to  his 
slavish  worship  of  the  cup — brought  her  prematurely  to 
the  grave.  The  wretched  man  knows  this :  he  cannot  es- 
cape his  doom.  Forgiveness  from  Heaven  he  may  receive 
— yea,  we  trust  he  has  received  it — but  he  never  can  forgive 
himself.     This  dreadful  consciousness  will  haunt  him  at  all 


132  THEFOUNVAIN. 

times  and  under  all  circumstances.  The  shade  of  her  who 
slept  in  his  bosom,  and  there  perished,  will  intercept  every 
ray  of  light  that  might  beam  on  his  pathway  through  life. 
Can  any  lot  be  more  wretched  ? 

My  friend — this  peculiar  fate,  once  entered  upon,  can 
never  be  escaped :  but,  it  may  be  avoided.  See  that  thou 
doest  it. 

Philadelphia,  June  1846. 


INTEMPERANCE.— A  SIMILE. 


BY    MARIE    ROSEAU. 


A  mother  held  a  bright  and  smiling  babe 
Pressed  closely  to  her  breast,  and  tenderly 
She  gazed  upon  its  face,  delighting  there 
To  mark  the  signs  of  dawning  intellect,  or  trace 
Its  father's  image  blended  with  her  own. 
She  fondly  hoped  that  in  his  unformed  mind 
There  were  the  elements  of  future  good. 
He  was  her  joy,  her  pride  :  her  every  hope 
Was  woven  with  his  being.     How  her  heart 
Poured  out  itself  in  earnest  prayer  to  Him 
The  giver  of  this  greatest  earthly  gift. 
The  father  bent  his  manly  form  to  lead 
The  footsteps  of  his  boy,  and  joyed  to  mark 
With  pride  parental  the  expanding  mind, 
There  striving  to  impress  fixed  principles 
Of  right  to  guide  him  on  through  future  life. 

The  boy  became  a  man.     Upon  his  arm 

A  fair  girl  leaned,  and,  with  a  trustful  love. 

Broke  every  tie  that  bound  her  to  the  spot 

Where  dwelt  her  childhood's  tried  and  faithful  friends. 

She  only  wished  to  rear  a  happy  home 

For  him  on  whom  her  heart  poured  out  its  hoard 

Of  living  wealth — pure  love  and  reverence — 

As  to  some  being  of  superior  mould. 

12  133 


134  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

His  children  gloried  in  their  father's  name, 
And  clung  to  him  for  aid  in  untried  paths. 
The  syren  voice  of  pleasure  lured  him  on 
To  wander  mid  forbidden  scenes,  where  song 
And  wit  and  wine  their  witching  influence  lend. 
He  struggled  with  his  tempters  for  a  time 
And  then  sank  lowest  in  the  depths  of  vice, 
To  rise  no  more.     Ah  who  can  tell  the  deep. 
The  bitter  anguish  which  that  fall  must  bring  ? 

So  have  I  seen  the  sun,  upon  a  day 

In  spring,  rise  midway  in  the  firmament : 

A  thousand  birds  that  sought  their  summer  home 

Sang  sweetly  as  they  built  their  humble  nests, 

And  insects  just  awakened  into  life. 

Danced  joyously  beneath  his  kindly  beams ; 

And  children  played  among  the  fresh,  young  flowers 

And  as  I  gazed,  a  cloud  rose  o'er  the  west 

But  yet  so  small  and  thin  they  heeded  not. 

Deeper  and  wider  o'er  the  heavens  it  spread, 

'Till  the  whole  firmanent  was  clothed  with  gloom : 

Then  all  the  birds  their  pleasant  labour  ceased 

And  hid  among  the  branches  of  the  trees, — 

The  insects  crept  to  their  secluded  haunts. 

And  tearfully  the  children  sought  their  homes 

For  refuge,  feeling  that  their  sports  were  done. 

Such,  oh  Intemperance  !  is  thy  baleful  curse, 
Crushing  with  heavy  hand  the  dearest  hopes     • 
And  clouding  with  deep  gloom  life's  brightest  days. 


"OUR    ELSIE." 

BY   ALICE   G.   LEE. 

"The  poor  make  no  new  friends, 
But  oh,  Ihey  love  the  better  still 
The  few  our  Father  sends  I" 

*  Dreams  are  strange  things,  and  it  is  my  opinion  that  one 
travels  much  faster  when  asleep  than  on  any  railway  yet 
laid.  Although  it  was  the  middle  of  vacation  I  imagined 
myself  at  school,  and  was  in  a  terrible  puzzle  as  to  my 
examination  composition,  which  of  two  themes  Miss 
Stevens  would  rather  I  should  write  on.  I  had  at  length 
decided  to  ask  her,  as  the  quickest  method  of  knowing ; 
and  then  I  thought  the  monitress  summoned  me  for  not 
having  my  room  in  order  at  the  second  bell.  I  knew 
that  I  was  not  guilty  of  the  offence,  yet  I  felt  unwilling 
to  go,  and  shrunk  from  her  as  she  would  have  urged  me 
forward.  I  awoke  in  my  own  little  room,  rudely  push- 
ing away  Elsie's  hand,  which  was  laid  upon  my  arm  to 
awaken  me  without  disturbing  Fan,  whose  red  lips 
almost  touched  my  own.  I  had  commissioned  Elsie  to 
call  me  thus  early,  for  I  wished  to  practise  very  industri- 
ously that  morning  in  some  music  that  uncle  had  brought 
me  the  day  before.  So  I  kissed  Fan,  gently,  lest  she 
should  wake,  for  be  it  known  I  am  dull  at  the  piano, 
though  I  love  music  very  dearly,  and  Fan,  who  excels, 
would  once  in  a  while  laugh  at  my  clumsy  movements. 

135 


136  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

A  few  moments,  and  I  was  leaning  from  the  front 
portico,  watching  the  duU  gray  mist  that  floated  slowly 
up  from  the  surface  of  the  river.  Although  so  early  it 
was  very  sultry,  and  as  I  leaned  far  over  the  lattice- 
work not  one  breath  of  air  stirred  the  folds  of  my  muslin 
wrapper.  The  perfect  stillness,  and  the  heavy  atmos- 
phere, gave  a  strange  oppression  to  my  mind,  and  as  I 
entered  the  parlor  I  threw  up  the  large  windows,  and 
put  aside  the  light  curtains,  for  it  seemed  as  if  the  faint- 
est breath  of  wind  would  relieve  the  languor  which  was 
stealing  over  me.  Then  I  threw  back  the  lid  of  the 
piano,  and  though  at  first  it  was  a  very  great  exertion,  I 
soon  forgot  the  heat  in  the  chords,  and  staccatos  of  vifet 
leger,  remembering  Miss  Hemenway's  injunctions,  and 
doing  as  I  thought  remarkably  well  at  the  octaves.  At 
length  as  I  was  going  slowly  over  and  over  a  very  per- ' 
plexing  passage,  I  noticed  that  Elsie  was  making  a  most 
unusual  disturbance  in  the  next  room,  and  as  the  folding 
doors  stood  ajar  I  peeped  in  to  see  the  cause  of  the 
racket.  She  was  sweeping,  but  our  very  quiet  Elsie 
rarely  raised  "  a  bit  of  dust,"  and  now  the  air  was  per- 
fectly thick  with  the  blinding  particles.  Tables  were 
whirled  with  magnetic  speed  from  one  side  of  the  room 
to  the  other ;  sober,  domestic  ottomans  went  dancing 
over  the  carpet,  while,  at  last,  with  a  "Violent  push  from 
the  broom,  two  chairs  commenced  coqueting  in  a  rapid 
polka ;  and  as  the  dust  passed  through  the  window,  I 
caught  sight  of  her  face.  I  never  should  have  recog- 
nized the  expression,  and  ii  seemed  to  me  that  even  her 
features  had  changed.  Her  usually  calm  brow  was  con- 
tracted, and  her  eyes  had  a  light  not  at  all  natural  to 
them ;  for  the  first  time  since  I  had  known  her,  I  saw 
Elsie  in  anger.  Then  I  noticed  that  she  cast  most  ex- 
pressive I-wish-you-were-out-of-the-way  glances  at  my- 
self, when  perfectly  innocent  of  my  share  in  the  commo- 
tion, I  quickly  asked  an  explanation.     Her  face  was 


"our     ELSIE."  137 

somewhat  smoother  when  she  told  me  it  was  very  incon- 
venient for  her  to  put  off  sweeping  the  room  wlierc  I 
sat,  and  she  wished  I  would  practise  at  some  other  iiour, 
for  she  should  not  have  a  minute  after  six  to  put  it 
in  order.  Tlie  dust  always  got  into  a  piano  so,  when 
it  was  open,  and  of  course  I  did  not  want  to  be  smoth- 
ered; diMSi  loould  fly  such  hot  weather — .yAe  could  not 
help  it. 

Although  it  put  to  flight  my  project  of  surprising 
uncle  Charles,  by  my  industry,  I  saw  it  was  as  she  said, 
and  not  dreaming  of  disputing  Elsie,  who  was  quite  a 
privileged  person  in  the  family,  I  quietly  closed  the  in- 
strument and  passed  through  the  window  into  the  garden. 
Wherever  I  may  be,  I  always  choose  a  spot  for  my 
peculiar  with-drawing  room,  wherein  to  enjoy  the  man- 
ufacture of  air-castles,  (a  business,  I  may  add  en  passant, 
at  which  I  am  very  expert.)  A  glance  at  the  window 
of  my  room  told  me  Fan  was  not  yet  stirring,  and  I 
passed  lazily  along  to  a  noble  horse-chesnut  tree  that 
stood  at  some  distance  from  the  house,  and  seated  myself 
in  a  low  garden  chair  placed  under  its  thick  foliage. 
Perhaps  it  would  have  been  more  romantic  had  I 
"  thrown  myself  upon  the  grass,"  but  then  you  know  it 
is  very  apt  to  be  damp  with  the  night-dew  thus  early  in 
the  morning,  and  I  never  sacrifice  comfort  to  senti- 
ment. 

"  Next  term,"  was  the  subject  of  this  day-dream,  and 
just  as  I  decided  that  I  had  much  rather  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  Algebra  in  the  world,  Elsie,  for  the  third 
time,  roused  me.  Unaware  how  much  time  might  have 
elapsed,  I  started,  with  a  promise  to  come  directly,  for  I 
supposed  she  had  called  me  to  breakfast.  But  this  was 
not  her  errand,  and  she  looked  very  penitent  when  she 
asked  me  to  "  please  not  remember  "  how  cross  she  had 
been ;  and  here  she  stopped,  as  though  she  wished,  yet 
dared  not  to  say  more. 

12* 


138  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

Of  course,  I  "  had  not  intended  to  speak  of  it," — no 
she  did  not  mean  just  that ;  she  was  sorry  she  had  dis- 
turbed me  ;  there  might  have  been  time  to  put  the  room 
to  rights  after  breakfast,  but  she  confessed  she  was  out 
of  temper,  and  indeed  she  had  enough  to  make  her  so  ; 
if  I  only  knew  one  half  I  would  not  blame  her. 

I  did  not  in  the  least,  for  I  knew  that  it  could  be  no 
light  trouble  that  had  called  a  frown  to  her  brow.  At 
length  she  told  me  that  she  wished  to  ask  a  favor  of  me, 
a  very  great  favor ;  but  it  was  a  long  story,  and  she  had 
not  time  to  tell  me  now — when  could  she  see  me  again  ? 
All  alone — for  though  there  was  nothing  wrong  in  it, 
she  did  not  want  the  Doctor  or  his  wife  to  hear ;  no,  nor 
Miss  Fanny  either — she  laughed  sometimes  when  it  did 
not  seem  right.  This  last  I  did  not  deny,  my  music  les- 
sons had  apprised  me  of  it  long  before.  I  remembered 
that  the  mirthful  young  lady  was  going  that  afternoon 
on  a  visit  of  some  days,  so  I  told  Elsie  to  come  to  my 
room  after  nine,  and  I  would  help  her  all  I  could. 

Here  was  pabulum  for  my  vanity ;  to  be  singled  out 
as  a  confidant — before  aunt  Mary,  in  her  wisdom,  and 
Fan,  with  her  kind  heart !  I  grew  several  inches  in  my 
own  estimation.  Some  one  says,  "ladies,"  especially 
girls  of  fifteen,  "  have  an  inherent  love  for  a  secret,"  and 
I  early  learned  not  to  contradict  people  who  were  older 
than  myself. 

Just  then,  out  came  Fan  to  fill  the  vases,  and  I  forgot 
Elsie  and  her  troubles,  for  we  always  had  a  "  peaceful 
strife"  on  such  occasions,  as  to  who  should  arrange  the 
most  tasteful  bouquet.  Fan,  as  usual,  finished  her's  the 
first,  and  showering  over  me  some  of  the  rejected  leaves 
and  blossoms,  ran  along  the  path  towards  the  house, 
pelting  Beauty  with  the  rest.  Unlucky  Fan  !  her  exul- 
tation quickly  vanished,  for  in  her  heedlessness  she  stum- 
bled over  the  poor  dog,  and  Fan,  vase  and  flowers  fell 
just  in  the  centre  of  a  beautiful  clump  of  English  haw- 


"our      ELSIE."  139 

thorne,  uncle's  especial  favorites,  I  came  up  just  as  he 
lifted  her  from  tlie  fragrant  hut  uncomfortahle  hod,  con- 
solhig  her  for  the  mishap  with  a  quotation  (I  believe 
from  Sternhold  and  Hopkins,) 

"  The  race,  it  is  not  always  got 

By  him  who  fastest  runs, 
Nor  the  battle  by  those  people 

Who  shoot  with  longest  guns" — 

which  lines  I  have  since  taken  as  my  motto,  as  most 
encouraging  to  such  a  plodding  individual  as  myself. 

The  day  was  true  to  the. promise  of  the  morning. 
Work  was  impossible,  for  the  brightest  needles  grew  dull 
with  the  least  possible  use  ;  reading  was  too  great  an  ex- 
ertion even  for  uncle,  and  though  for  a  long  time  I  thought 
him  busy  at  the  "  Daily  Tribune,"  I  found  that  he  was 
in  a  sound  nap,  his  hand  still  grasping  the  sheet ;  the 
piano  was  voiceless,  my  pencil  had  a  long  vacation,  and 
thus  I  yawned  through  one  of  the  longest  Autumn  days 
I  ever  knew. 

But  the  calm  evening — how  much  more  beautiful  it 
was  for  the  languid  day  that  preceded  it !  The  full- 
orbed  moon  "  floated  up  through  the  sky,"  undimmed 
by  even  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  and  the  soft  light,  almost 
golden  it  seemed,  revealed  every  spray,  and  blossom, 
that  now  regained  the  strength  and  beauty  wasted  under 
the  fervid  sun.  Although  not  a  breath  stirred  the  silent 
leaves,  the  falling  dew  freshened  the  air,  and  all  seemed 
just  called  into  existence,  pure  and  holy,  as  the  strange, 
mellow  light  streamed  broadly  from  on  high.  How  I 
envied  the  flowers  that  could  lift  their  bright  faces  to  the 
sky,  and  rejoice  in  the  soft  dew  as  it  fell  silently  upon 
the  upturned  leaves,  without  an  uncle  Charles  to  threaten 
all  sorts  of  dangers  and  fevers  from  the  exposure.  Shall 
I  confess  it,  I  turned  from  this  good  uncle  in  haste,  be- 
cause he  would  not  let  me  stay  in  the  open  air,  and 


140  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

threw  myself  on  my  bed  with  a  feeUng  in  my  heart  very 
much  hke  passion  ;  and  when  it  was  steahng  from  me  in 
fast  gushing  tears — such  tears  as  are  to  the  troubled  heart 
as  night-dew  to  the  flowers,  a  low  tap  at  the  door  brought 
to  my  mind  Elsie's  promised  visit,  and  crushing  them 
back  I  bade  her  enter. 

Although  she  well  knew  that  not  a  soul  save  ourselves 
was  in  that  part  of  the  house,  she  looked  cautiously  around 
the  room,  put  aside  the  curtain  and  scanned  the  garden 
near  the  window,  then  seated  herself  at  the  foot  of  my  bed, 
gazing  earnestly  into  my  face  as  if  she  would  read  there 
sympathy  for  her  story ;  and  ere  she  told  it  me,  she  begged 
once  more  that  not  a  soul  should  hear  it,  and  hoped  I  would 
not  even  mention  it  to  herself  again,  (I  am  not  going  to  be- 
tray her  confidence,  dear  ladies,  for  last  night  she  gave  me 
permission  to  tell  you  all  about  it).  "  He,"  she  said 
"  would  not  like  it  if  he  knew  she  had  told  any  one." 

Lo  it  was  an  affaire  du  ccRur  !  This  knowledge  did  not 
at  all  tend  to  lessen  my  vanity.  Well !  Elsie  was  young, 
and  pretty  enough  to  have  played  the  coquette  successfully 
had  she  chosen. 

"  To  have  you  understand  it  all,  I  must  tell  you  about  a 
great  many  things,  which  do  not  seem  to  belong  to  the 
story,  and  it  will  take  a  great  while  Miss  Alice." 

Here  I  interrupted  Elsie's  apologies,  for  like  yourselves 
ladies  I  entertain  a  dislike  to  the  whole  race,  and  as  the 
story  was  long,  I  nestled  more  comfortably  on  my  pillow, 
as  I  advise  you  to  do  on  the  sofa  cushions. 

"  My  mother  died  when  I  was  a  very  little  girl,  T  do  not 
remember  her  at  all,  and  then  I  went  to  live  with  my  aunt, 
wno  was  in  the  country,  two  or  three  miles  from  the  vil- 
lage where  my  father  worked.  Yet  not  a  day  was  so 
stormy  that  he  did  not  walk  all  the  way  to  see  me,  after  his 
work  was  done ;  and  I  remember  he  most  always  brought 
me  some  little  present  which  he  told  me  to  share  with  my 
cousins,  for  my  aunt  had  many  children,  and  would  not 


"our      ELSIE."  141 

have  taken  care  of  me,  only  that  I  looked  very  much  like 
my  mother,  who  was  her  only  sister,  and  I  was  so  feeble 
and  sickly  she  feared  I  would  not  live,  if  I  was  put  among 
strangers.  I  was  the  only  child  my  father  had,  for  my 
baby  brother  died  when  my  mother  did,  and  as  I  looked 
very  much  like  her  as  I  told  you,  you  may  know  how 
dearly  my  father  loved  me.  When  I  grew  larger  and 
stronger,  he  used  to  let  me  walk  back  part  of  the  way  with 
him,  when  it  was  pleasant  weather,  and  then  he  would 
take  me  to  the  grave-yard  where  my  mother  was  buried, 
and  teach  me  little  prayers  and  hymns,  as  I  knelt  beside 
her  grave,  and  tell  me  that  I  must  be  good  as  she  was,  if  I 
wanted  to  see  her  in  heaven. 

"  He  dressed  me  very  nicely,  and  when  I  was  old  en- 
ough sent  me  to  school  with  my  cousins.  But  I  did  not 
like  the  confinement  and  used  to  run  away  whenever  I 
could,  to  play  in  the  orchard  and  the  hay  meadow,  so  that 
when  I  was  eleven  years  old,  I  could  only  read  and  write  a 
very  little.  Then,  my  father  changed  every  day  ;  sometimes 
he  would  not  come  to  my  aunt's  in  a  week,  and  then  he 
was  so  strange  and  cross,  that  I  did  not  love  him  half  so 
Avell ;  and  I  remember  he  struck  me  one  day,  the  first  time 
I  could  remember,  because  I  asked  him  why  he  did  not  go 
to  my  mother's  grave,  and  said  he  did  not  love  me  as  well 
as  he  used  to. 

"  At  last,  he  told  my  aunt  with  a  terrible  oath,  that  I 
must  go  to  the  factory,  for  he  could  not  support  me  to  idle 
around  any  longer ;  and  though  I  cried  at  leaving  my  aunt, 
and  the  pleasant  place  where  I  had  lived  so  long,  I  had 
to  go,  and  be  pent  up  in  the  hot  dusty  town.  I  found  the 
close  long  room  in  which  I  now  spent  all  the  day  much 
worse  than  the  school  I  so  hated. 

"  I  lived  so  a  long  time,  but  at  last  I  grew  thin  and  sick, 
and  my  aunt  thought  I  had  better  go  out  to  service.  She 
would  have  taken  me  to  her  home,  but  my  uncle  was  poor ; 
he  said  his  own  children  must  work  for  their  living,  and  so 


142  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

must  I.  I  had  not  seen  my  father  then  in  a  long  time ; 
they  told  me  he  had  left  the  place  for  he  could  get  no  one 
to  employ  him  there  ;  he  had  grown  so  intemperate.  He 
did  not  come  to  bid  me  good  bye  though,  so  I  did  not 
know  where  he  had  gone. 

"  On  my  fifteenth  birthday,  my  aunt  came  for  me  to 
make  her  a  little  visit  she  said,  and  as  I  knew  that  I  could 
be  spared,  I  promised  to  come,  I  saw  she  had  been  crying, 
for  her  eyes  were  swollen,  and  her  voice  trembled  when 
she  spoke.  When  I  got  to  the  house  I  found  my  father, 
hut  oh !  I  hardly  knew  him,  he  had  altered  so  much." 

Poor  Elsie !  she  turned  to  the  window  to  hide  her  tears, 
and  when  she  went  on  with  her  story,  I  could  hardly  un- 
derstand her,  so  low  and  tremulous  was  her  voice. 

"  He  lay  upon  the  bed  in  a  raging  fever,  and  aunt  said 
he  had  not  spoken,  only  to  call  for  me  since  he  came  that 
morning.  For  a  long  week  I  watched  by  his  bed,  and,  oh, 
Miss  Alice,  how  terrible  it  was  to  hear  him  rave !  Some- 
times he  would  call  for  my  mother,  and  seem  to  think  she 
was  yet  alive — ^he  would  ask  her  to  forgive  him  for  desert- 
ing her  child,  for  letting  me  starve — he  would  plead,  and 
pray  her  to  speak  just  one  word,  just  to  say  she  forgave 
him ;  then  his  fever  would  come  on,  and  he  would  curse 
me  with  horrible  oaths,   and  call  me  all  sorts  of  names — 

"  He  never  knew  me  at  all,  but  died  in  a  convulsion. 

"  I  had  worked  all  that  summer  very  hard,  and  saved 
some  money  to  pay  my  board  while  I  learned  a  trade,  so  I 
had  enough  to  pay  the  doctor  and  for  the  funeral,  and  my 
father  was  buried  by  the  side  of  my  mother.  I  did  not 
have  enough  to  buy  a  gravestone,  but  long  before  I  had 
planted  a  white  rose-bush  by  the  place,  and  sweet  violets 
and  myrtle  grew  thickly  around  it.  It  was  always  quiet 
there,  and  Sunday  mornings  I  used  to  go  and  read  my 
Bible  by  my  mother's  grave.  When  I  went  back  to  my 
place  I  found  there  was  a  new  member  of  the  family  ;  they 


"our      ELSIE."  143 

kept  a   store,  and  a  clerk  had  been   hired   while  I  was 
away." 

(Blushes  are  sad  tell-tales.  I  could  see  in  the  bright 
moonlight  that  Elsie's  face  grew  a  deep  crimson.) 

"  Hervey,  that  was  his  name,  was  very  kind  to  me,  and 
helped  me  in  a  great  many  little  ways.  Sometimes,  I 
would  be  going  for  water,  and  the  store  pitcher  would  just 
be  empty,  and  he  said  he  could  just  as  well  bring  my  pail 
at  the  same  time.  In  the  winter  I  often  found  the  fire-wood 
when  I  came  down  cold  mornings ;  and  though  he  did  not 
often  speak  to  me,  we  soon  grew  quite  good  friends.  I  did 
not  feel  half  so  lonely  as  I  had  done  since  my  father  died  ; 
for  in  the  long  evenings  he  would  shut  the  store  early  and 
come  and  read  to  me  while  I  sat  sewing.  Sometimes  I  did 
not  dare  to  look  up  from  my  work,  for  I  did  not  like  to 
meet  his  eyes,  yet  he  was  never  cross,  never.  That  was  a 
very  pleasant  winter !" 

Elsie  made  a  long  pause,  perhaps  there  was  some  pleas- 
m-e  in  thinking  of  those  happy  hours. 

"  After  a  while  my  mistress  grew  very  ill-natured.  She 
did  not  seem  to  like  it  when  she  found  Hervey  with  me ; 
and  one  day  I  heard  the  men  in  the  store  laugh  at  him  for 
spending  so  much  of  his  time  '  with  a  servant  girl.'  That 
night  my  mistress  told  me  '  she  would  not  have  him  coming 
in  to  hinder  me  any  more,  and  I  need  not  think  he  was  fool 
enough  to  care  for  me.'  I  pressed  back  the  tears  that 
came  into  my  eyes,  and  told  her  that  I  could  not  stay  there 
any  longer :  as  soon  as  I  could  put  my  things  together,  I  left 
the  house  forever." 

"  Did  you  not  even  say  '  good  bye,'   Elsie  ?" 

"  I  would  not  have  seen  him  again,  for  any  thing  in  the 
world,  Miss  Alice,  after  what  she  had  said.  I  did  not 
know  but  what  he  thought  just  so  too,  and  I  truly  had 
never  been  bold  enough  to  think  he  could  like  me.  After 
I  came  to  your  aunt's,  for  this  was  the  next  place  I  lived  at, 
I  did  not  see  him,  or  hear  one  word,  for  a  great  many 


144  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

weeks.  One  Sunday  night,  just  as  the  roses  were  in  bloom, 
I  went  to  my  mother's  grave,  and  I  found  the  rose-bush 
full  of  buds  and  blossoms,  half  torn  up  and  lying  all  torn 
and  trampled  on  the  ground.  It  had  been  quite  bent  over 
with  the  weight  of  the  buds,  the  last  time  I  was  there,  and 
I  had  planted  a  stake  by  it,  and  tied  up  the  branches ;  but 
that  was  pulled  up  and  thrown  off  some  ways. 

"  I  could  not  help  crying  when  I  saw  it,  for  I  had  not 
been  well  for  a  long  time,  and  the  tears  came  at  a  word.  I 
had  no  heart  to  tie  up  the  bush  again,  but  sat  down  and 
thought  over  all  my  life,  for  it  seemed  to  me  I  was  just  like 
the  rose-bush.  When  I  was  bent  almost  to  the  earth  with 
my  father's  death,  I  had  found  a  friend  who  comforted  me  ; 
and  just  as  I  begun  to  grow  less  sorrowful,  I  had  lost  him, 
just  as  the  support  was  taken  from  the  rose,  and  my  heart 
had  been  trampled  on  and  despised. 

"  It  grew  quite  dark  before  I  knew  it,  and  just  as  I  be- 
gun to  see  how  late  it  was,  some  one  touched  my  hand,  and 
when  I  started — for  I  had  not  heard  a  step,  and  the  grave- 
yard was  very  lonesome,  there  was  Hervey  !  As  I  sprung 
up,  all  that  my  mistress  had  told  me  came  into  my  mind  ; 
and  then  it  was  quite  dark,  and  I  suppose  that  was  what 
frightened  me ;  for  I  did  not  wish  to  speak  to  him,  and 
would  have  gone  away,  but  I  felt  so  weak,  that  I  could  not 
move.  Then  he  spoke  so  kind,  and  took  my  hand  gently, 
and  I  did  not  wish  to  leave  him,  for  I  saw  he  was  not 
angry  as  I  had  feared.  We  sat  there  a  long  time,  for  he 
had  much  to  tell  me  ;  how  he  had  tried  to  find  out  where  I 
was  after  I  left,  but  my  mistress  would  not  tell  him,  and  he 
had  forgotten  where  my  aunt  lived  At  last  he  heard  your 
uncle  speak  of  me  and  found  I  lived  here ;  that  night  he 
had  gone  to  the  house,  and  Chloe  told  him  where  she  ex- 
pected I  was,  and  he  came  directly  to  find  me.  He  asked 
me  how  I  came  to  go  away  from  my  last  place,  and  said 
that  I  should  have  told  him  where  I  was  going. 

"  I  did  not  dare  to  tell  him  all,  but  I  said  that  I  heard  the 


"our      ELSIE."  145 

people  in  the  store  talk  to  him  about  me,  and  I  was  afraid 
they  would  teaze  him  more  if  I  staid.  Was  it  not  strange  ? 
He  said  that  was  what  first  made  him  know  how  much  he 
thought  of  me,  and  he  determined  to  find  me  out,  and  tell 
me  so." 

"Then  after  all,  Elsie  it  loas  for  the  best,  though  it 
plagued  you  then." 

"  So  Hervey  told  me,  and  I  found  I  had  at  last  found  a 
real  friend ;  so  I  told  him  about  my  life,  about  my  father's 
dying,  and  showed  him  the  rose-bush,  all  crushed. 

"  He  said,  I  must  never  feel  so  sad  again ;  and  when  he 
helped  me  to  tie  up  the  broken  bush,  he  asked  me  if  I 
would  be  his  wife  when  he  was  older  and  better  off.  I  had 
not  dared  to  dream  of  it  before,  yet  I  felt  that  he  did  love 
me,  and  with  my  hand  clasped  in  his,  upon  my  mother's 
grave,  I  promised  that  I  would. 

"  That  was  last  summer,  and  since  then  he  has  walked 
with  me  every  pleasant  Sunday  night  to  the  grave-yard,  till 
lately  he  has  altered  so ;  he  does  not  seem  so  happy  to 
meet  me  as  he  used  to,  and  last  Sabbath  I  took  my  walk 
all  alone.  I  know  I  have  not  done  any  thing  to  n^ake  him 
angry.  He  does  not  knoiv  tvhat  it  is  to  have  but'  one  to 
love  in  the  wide  world. 

"And  now  Miss  Alice,  what  I  want  you  to  be. so  very 
good  as  to  do  is — I  hardly  dare  to  ask  you — but  I  heard 
you  read  some  poetry  to  your  aunt  last  night  about  being 
blind,  and  it  made  the  tears  come  in  a  moment  to  my  eyes 
— and  I  want  you  to  write  a  piece  for  me  to  give  Hervey  ; 
about  my  being  an  orphan,  and  the  rose-bush,  and  tell  him 
that  I  shall  be  alone  in  the  world,  if  he  loves  me  no 
more.  If  you  write  it  like  that  one  you  read,  he  canH  be 
angry  any  longer." 

It  seemed  Elsie  too  held  the- opinion,  "there  is  no  road 
to  a  woman's  heart  like  flattery;"  but  though  I  disclaim 
this,  as  also  my  power  to  bring  tears  to  the  eyes  of  any — I 
had  much  rather  bring  smiles  to  faces  already  bright, — I 

13 


146  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

promised  her  that  if  she  would  bring  me  a  lamp,  I  would 
write  for  her  directly.  Though  I  knew,  that  could  he  have 
listened  as  I  had  to  her  correct  and  simple  language,  could 
he  have  watched  her  half  averted  face,  and  the  warm 
blushes  "  that  come  and  went  a  thousand  times,"  as  she 
spoke  of  him — for  she  felt  that  she  might  be  doing  wrong 
in  thus  opening  her  innocent  heart,  to  one  who  perchance 
might  make  light  of  its  holiest  thoughts, — it  would  have 
done  far  more  than  any  thing  I  could  pen,  to  have  removed 
the  doubts,  and  suspicions  that  had  perhaps  crept  into  his 
mind. 


Shall  I  tell  you  how  I  found  Elsie,  when  two  years  had 
passed,  and  I  returned  to  my  home,  a  school-girl  no  lon- 
ger? 

It  was  a  pleasant  spring  day,  yet  my  steps  were  not 
turned  to  green  woods,  or  bright  meadows.  My  aunt 
guided  me  through  a  pleasant  street,  if  so  it  might  be  called, 
upon  the  very  outskirts  of  the  town,  to  the  smallest  of  in- 
habitable cottages,  with  cool  green  blinds,  and  a  tiny  door- 
yard,  in  which  the  grass  and  blue  violets  sprang  freshly. 
It  was  Elsie's  pleasant  face,  that  looked  out  from  the  win- 
dow, and  in  a  moment  she  had  bidden  us  welcome  to  her 
new  home.  She  had  not  yet  '^ceased  to  blush,"  for  a 
bright  colour  flitted  to  her  face,  as  she  said,  "  my  husband, 
Miss  Alice." 

A  noble,  manly  fellow  he  was  too  ;  as  proud  of  his  pretty 
wife  as  ever  I  could  have  wished  him  to  be :  and  after  we 
grew  better  acquainted,  he  took  from  the  little  bookcase  a 
folded  sheet,  and  asked  me  if  I  had  ever  seen  it  before. 
There  were  the  identical  lines  that  I  had  given  Elsie  two 
years  before  ;  and  my  aunt  listened  now  for  the  first  time  to 
the  story  of  their  estrangement.  It  was  a  struggle  between 
'ove,  and  paternal  duty,  that  had  for  a  time  kept  him  from 


"our      ELSIE."  147 

her  side ;  for  some  one  had  told  his  father,  that  he  was 
about  to  marry  the  daughter  of  a  drunkard.  A  dark  stain 
had  even  been  cast  upon  poor  Elsie's  irreproachable  char- 
acter ;  and  the  stern  old  man  bade  him  see  her  no  more. 
When  his  doubts  had  been  the  darkest,  came  her  little  note, 
and  as  he  read  to  his  father,  the  simple  story  of  her  life,  he 
asked  if  she  could  be  unworthy  of  his  love.  Then  when 
doubts  were  all  removed  for  the  lie  of  the  slanderer  was 
refuted,  he  won  consent  to  his  marriage,  and  the  old  man 
soon  learned  to  love  her  whom  his  son  had  chosen. 

I  never  felt  happier,  than  when  Hervey  thanked  me  for 
being  a  friend  to  his  wife,  when  even  he  had  for  a  time 
deserted  her. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  FREE. 

BY   S.   D.   PATTERSON. 

Rejoice  !  rejoice  !  with  a  cheerful  voice, 

For  the  chain  of  the  tyrant  is  broken ; 
And  free  as  the  wind  is  the  captive's  mind, 

In  the  strength  of  the  promise  spoken — 
He  has  thrown  aside,  in  his  reason's  pride. 

The  fatal  ties  that  bound  him. 
And  no  longer  the  glow  of  the  cup  of  woe, 

Can  cast  its  spell  around  him. 

Joyous  and  bright  is  the  blessed  light 

That  holy  pledge  has  given, 
For  it  guides,  with  its  ray,  to  a  happier  day 

The  hearts  by  affliction  riven  : 
And  the  thorny  road  once  in  anguish  trod, 

Is  illumed  by  its  magic  gleaming. 
And  the  care-worn  brow  we  gazed  on,  now 

With  hope  and  peace  is  beaming. 

Noble  and  high  is  the  victory — 

Its  trophies  are  rich  and  glorious — 
Honor  and  health,  content  and  wealth. 

Belong  to  the  victorious : 
Then  join  the  band,  and  let  your  hand 

Declare  the  thraldom  broken ; 
And  free  as  the  wind  shall  be  your  mind. 

In  the  strength  of  the  promise  spoken. 

148 


THE    REFORMER. 


BY   JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER. 

All  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan, 
I  saw  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 

Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 

The  Church  beneath  her  trembling  dome 
Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm ; 

Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  pale  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  fled 
Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in ; 

Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 
To  drown  the  din. 

"  Spare,"  Art  implored,  "  yon  holy  pile. 
That  grand,  old,  time-worn  turret  spare ; ' 

Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle. 
Cried  out,  "  Forbear  ! " 

149 


150  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

Gray -bearded  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 
Groped  for  his  old  accustomed  stone, 

Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept,  to  find 
His  seat  o'erthrown. 

Young  Romance  raised  his  dreamy  eyes, 
O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold, 

"  Why  smite,"  he  asked,  in  sad  surprise, 
"The  fair,  the  old?" 

Yet  louder  rang  the  Strong  One's  stroke, 
Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe's  gleam ; 

Shuddering  and  faint  of  heart  I  woke, 
As  from  a  dream. 

I  looked  :  aside  the  dust-cloud  rolled — 
The  Waster  seemed  the  Builder  too ; 

Upspringing  from  the  ruined  old 
I  saw  the  new. 

'  Twas  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad — 
The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill ; 

Whate'er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still. 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared, 
The  frown  which  awed  me  passed  away, 

And  left  behind  a  smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

Green  grew  the  grain  on  battle-plains. 
O'er  swarded  war-mounds  grazed  the  cow^ 

The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains, 
The  spade  and  plough. 


THEREFOR  MER.  151 

Where  frowned  the  fort,  paviHons  gay, 
And  cottage  windows,  flower-entwined. 

Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 

Through  vine-wreathed  cups  with  wine  once  red. 
The  lights  on  brimming  chrystal  fell. 

Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through  prison  walls,  like  Heaven-sent  hope. 
Fresh  breezes  blew,  and  sunbeams  strayed; 

And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 
The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 

Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours. 
Glad  school-girls,  answering  to  the  bell, 

Came  crowned  with  flowers. 

Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know 
That,  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven, 

The  best  fruits  grow. 

The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 
The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 

Of  Wrong  alone — 

These  wait  their  doom,  from  that  great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve  to-day ; 

And  fresher  life  the  World  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 


152  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

Oh  !  backward-looking  son  of  time  ! — 
The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 

The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 
Still  sweeping  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer : 
Destroying  Seva,  forming  Brahm, 

Who  wake  by  turns  Earth's  love  and  fear, 
Are  one,  the  same. 

As  idly  as  in  that  old  day 

Thou  mournest,  did  thy  sires  repine, 
So,  in  his  time,  thy  child  grown  gray, 

Shall  sigh  for  thine. 

Yet,  not  the  less  for  them  or  thou 
The  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 

To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow. 
Which  God  repeats  ! 

Take  heart ! — the  Waster  builds  again — 
A  charmed  life  old  goodness  hath ; 

The  tares  may  perish — ^but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things ;  all  obey 
His  first  propulsion  from  the  night : 

Ho,  wake  and  watch  ! — the  world  is  gray 
With  morning  light ! 


-r  J  i;  jii  it\  if^  ii>  a  w  E  a  © 


JACK  ALLOW  AY'S   PRESENT. 

A  DOMESTIC  SKETCH. 

BY    THE    EDITOR. 

"  Well,  upon  my  word,  Harry, — and  my  experience  is 
not  the  briefest, — I  never  did  before  meet  with  a  case  of 
such  utter  and  complete  ruin  as  yours.  I  have  seen 
people  partially  spoiled  by  the  honey  moon — good  for 
nothing  for  any  practical  out-door  purposes,  for  a  month 
or  two — but  they  have  usually  returned  to  their  senses 
after  a  while,  and  become  better  fellows  than  ever.  Your 
case  is  an  exception.  Instead  of  being  restored  to  plain 
prose,  and  sound  discretion,  by  the  dull  realities  of  a  wife 
and  babies,  you  appear  to  wax  more  of  a  lover  the  longer 
you  are  a  husband.  Trust  jne,  I  never  will  put  my  neck 
in  such  a  yoke — or  if  I  do " 

"  Well,"  said  Harry,  "  what  ?" 

"  Why,"  answered  his  friend,  "  if  I  do,  I  hope  that  I 
shall  be  complimented  with  the  present  of  an  apron  and 
distaff,  if  I  cannot  preserve  occasional  independence — 
mind,  I  don't  say  habitual — but  occasional  independence, 
enough  to  cross  the  street  without  consulting  my  wife, 
and  to  take  an  apple  from  a  fruit-stand,  without  cumber- 
ing myself  with  one  apiece  in  my  pockets  for  each  of  the 
children." 

Harry  smiled,  as  the  other  proceeded,  and  at  the  close 
broke  into  a  hearty  laugh. 

.53 


154  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

"Come,  come,"  rejoined  the  other,  "that  won't  do. 
Thy  laugh  is  hollow  and  sepulchral ;  thy  smile  like  the 
ghostly  glimmer  of  a  sick  chamber  taper,  on  a  dose  of 
disagreeable  medicine  that  you  must  take,  but  don 't  wish 
to.  Come,  acknowledge — upon  my  honour  it  sha'n't  go 
any  farther — acknowledge,  as  the  song  has  it,  that  'it  spoils 
a  man  to  marry  him,'  and  admit  that  you  are  heartily  sick 
and  weary  of  the  whole  thing." 

It  will  readily  be  supposed — how  could  it  be  other- 
wise?— that  he  who  said  all  this  was  a  bachelor — not  yet 
old,  to  be  sure,  though  he  had  wasted  quite  enough  of 
his  life  in  uncertainty,  whether  he  should  or  should  not 
become  what  the  Boston  Transcendentalists  and  their 
opposites,  the  Utilitarians,  every  where  define  to  be  a  fixed 
fact,  to  wit — a  married  man.  The  conversation  took 
place  at  the  table,  while  Harry's  wife,  our  bachelor's  sis- 
ter, presided  over  the  tea-cakes  and  hyson ;  for  all  which 
trifles  our  friend  expressed  a  hearty  contempt,  while  he 
disposed  of  them  as  an  elephant  would  of  apples,  and 
they  seemed  to  bear  a  like  relation  to  the  extinguishment 
of  his  hunger.  His  sister  smiled  at  first  to  hear  his  rho- 
domontade — ^but  her  face  assumed  a  more  thoughtful 
expression  as  she  heard  him  declare  that  he  must  take 
early  leave,  to  keep  an  appointment. 

"  You  see,  Harry,"  he  added,  reaching  for  his  hat, 
"  that  as  I  was  born  free  and  independent,  so  I  remain. 
/  have  no  wife  to  consult ;  /  have  no  children,  on  whose 
account  I  must  stop  at  the  apothecary's  with  a  prescrip- 
tion, and  return  early,  lest  they  be  in  bed.  If  you  were 
unmarried — or,  if  married,  you  had  wedded  a  reasonable 
being,  who  did  not  bore  you  to  death,  and  more  too — 
any  body  but  my  sister  Mary  there — I  would  take  you 
to-night  where  you  would  be  amused.     But — hey-ho  !" 

"  Why  that  sigh?"  said  the  husband,  much  amused  at 
his  friend's  mock  gravity. 

"  Harry,  I  have  injured  you  deeply.     Can  you  forgive 


JACK    ALLO  way's     PRESENT.  155 

me  ?"  And  as  he  said  this,  he  took  his  friend's  hands 
and  wrung  them  with  diverting  mock  contrition, 

"  He  may  forgive  you,"  said  Mary,  laughing  heartily, 
"  but  only  on  condition  that  you  confess." 

^^ May  he!  Hear  you  that,  unhappy  man!  With 
queenly  condescension,  she  allows  you  the  exercise  of 
your  own  impulses — but — with  conditions  !  Bow  to  the 
yoke,  and  I  will  unbosom.  I  acknowledge  then,  with 
deep  repentance,  that  I  am  a  traitor  to  my  friend.  Bro- 
therly love  triumphed  over  honour  and  chivalry.  Had 
the  syren  been  any  but  my  sister — had  you  been  wooed 
to  destruction  by  any  acts  but  hers — I  would  have  inter- 
posed, and " 

"  Married  her  yourself,  to  save  me,  I  dare  say !"  an- 
swered Harry.  And  in  the  pleasant  hilarity  of  good- 
natured  badinage,  '  Bachelor  John,'  as  his  sister  liked  to 

call  him,  left  the  house,  to  go .     But  bachelors  are 

not  very  much  in  the  habit  of  confessing  their  occupa- 
tions, to  the  ladies,  and  we  will  not  betray  their  secrets. 

"  My  dear  husband,"  said  Mary,  after  her  brother  had 
taken  his  leave,  "  if  we  do  not  find  some  means  of  marry- 
ing John,  and  thus  putting  him  in  custody,  he  will  be 
ruined !" 

"  But  he  is  so  averse " 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear.  No  man  is  a  surer  victim  than 
he  who  is  constantly  declaiming  against  matrimony." 

"  You  mean  to  say,  I  suppose,"  said  her  husband, 
laughing,  "that  the  moth  who  is  continually  flitting  about 
the  candle  will  dive  into  the  blaze  at  last." 

"  Silence,  sir  !  I  shall  forbid  my  brother  the  house, 
for,  as  I  am  a  Christian  woman,  I  perceive  that  his  rebel- 
lious principles,  and  his  resistance  against  the  right  divine 
of  the  woman,  are  making  an  impression  upon  you. 
Here,"  she  continued,  "  put  your  foot  on  the  rocker,  and 
keep  this  cradle  in  motion,  while  I  hunt  up  my  work. 
And  now,  Sir  Selfishness,  read  aloud,  if  you  please,  and 


156  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

not  be  chuckling  and  laughing  to  yourself  over  that  book, 
as  if  nobody  could  enjoy  a  good  thing  but  you !" 


Harry  Wendell's  was  indeed  a  pleasant  slavery.  Five 
years  married,  he  had  never  yet  forgotten  the  courtesy 
and  attention  due  his  wife,  nor  had  she  intermitted  the 
gende  arts  with  which  she  won  him.  But  our  sketch 
does  not  so  much  relate  to  this  happy  couple  as  to  Bach- 
elor John ;  and  we  proceed  to  show  how  he  was  taken 
in  the  rough,  like  a  Cape  May  diamond,  and  made  a 
brilliant  example  of. 

Mary  was  serious  in  her  fear,  that  if  he  was  not  mar- 
ried he  would  be  ruined,  and  in  earnest  in  her  determination 
to  avert  such  a  catastrophe.  How  match-making  is  con- 
ducted we  leave  to  other  pens  to  tell,  and  will  only  say 
of  this  particular  case,  that  Mary  had  the  less  difficulty, 
since,  with  a  woman's  keen  discernment,  she  had  disco- 
vered that  there  was  a  maiden  who  might  be  obtained 
by  John  for  the  asking ;  and  on  the  other  hand  she  had 
inveigled  him  into  the  admission,  that  if  he  ever  was  in- 
sane enough  to  wed,  he  would  sooner  merit  Bedlam  on 
account  of  that  girl  than  any  other.  Here  was  material 
to  work  upon  amply  sufficient ;  and  in  due  course  of  time 
Mary  had  the  happiness  to  see  the  contemner  of  chains 
fast  bound  and  beyond  escape;  except  by  that  sure  event 
which  sunders  all  human  ties,  releases  from  all  earthly 
engagements,  and  which,  in  exacting  the  last  great  debt, 
discharges  from  all  others.  That  release  has  not  been 
given  yet  to  John  or  to  his  wife.  Heaven  grant  it 
may  be  far  distant. 

And  now  let  us  sum  the  principal  accomplishments  which 
the  uncivilized  bachelor  possessed,  when  Eleanor  took  the 
rough  material  in  hand,  some  dozen  years  ago,  and  out 
of  which,  in  about  the  time  that  *it  required  Jacob  to  win 
two  wives,  she  has  been  able  to  construct  one  decent — aye 
more  than  decent, — excellent  husband.    Let  it  be  noted  that 


JACK     ALLOW  AYS     PRESENT.  157 

these  graces  were  possessed  by  John,  up  to  the  very 
hour  m  which  the  nuptial  blessing  was  pronounced  upon 
him — some  of  them  being  kept  a  little  in  concealment,  but 
all  of  them  being  there,  and  making  up  the  animal. 

He  smoked  tobacco.  Sometimes  he  drew  in  its  fumes 
through  the  long  stem  of  the  elaborate  hookah,  and  at 
others  sported  the  plain  cigar.  He  had  smoking  caps,  and 
all  the  paraphernalia,  including  fancy  cases,  with  true 
bachelor  devices. 

He  snuffed  tobacco.  The  degage  air  with  which  stage 
heroes  snuff  out  of  imitation  silver  boxes  had  enraptured 
his  fancy,  and  he  could  thrust  powder  up  his  nose  with  any 
Sir  Peter  Teasle,  or  Sir  Any  thing  Any  body  of  them  all. 

He  chewed  tobacco.     Oh  monstrous  ! 

He  tippled — genteelly  of  course,  taking  the  landlord's  or 
the  wine  merchant's  word  for  that  which  we  conceal  in 
praising  woman,  but  vaunt  in  celebrating  wine,  and  with 
quite  as  much  truth  in  one  case  as  the  other. 

He  drove  a  span  of  fast  horses,  harnessed  to  something 
which  looked  like  the  segment  of  a  cobweb,  on  wheels  with 
thistle  down  spokes,  and  hair  peripheries. 

He  clubbed  at  ten  pins,  billiards,  suppers,  and  gunning 
and  fishing  excursions. 

He  affected  the  outre  in  dress. 

He  mistook  profanity  for  force  in  conversation,  and 
obscenity  for  wit,  naturally  seeking  amusement  in  places 
where  those  who  appreciate  such  accomplishments  most  do 
congregate. 

He  attended  church  on  Sabbath  mornings,  when  it  was 
convenient,  but  could  not  positively  say  whether  (here  was 
an  afternoon  service  or  not.  Such  was  his  outline ;  and 
we  leave  it  to  the  reader  to  fill  up  the  picture.  The  graver 
derelictions  of  such  a  man  we  need  not  paint,  but  that  all 
this  froth  did  not  indicate  the  existence  of  more  serious 
errors  beneath,  nobody  could  suppose.  Still  John  Alio  way 
was  by  no  means  what  the  world  considers  a  bad  man ;  and 

14 


158  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

such  is  the  perversity  of  custom,  that  he  was  courted  for  his 
very  eccentricities,  and  admired  for  the  singular  traits 
which  we  have  enumerated.  He  was  generous — good  hu- 
moured— public  spirited,  always  obliging,  and  in  his  way 
courteous,  making  his  attentions  tell  upon  the  ladies,  for  the 
very  reason  that  while  his  conduct  indicated  that  he  placed 
them  in  the  scale  of  beings  rather  below  the  dog  and  the 
horse,  he  still  did  not  hesitate  to  forego  his  nobler  and 
more  manly  pursuits  occasionally,  to  make  them  happy. 

Eleanor  at  her  husband's  request  was  ready  for  a  ride. 
"  John  !  My  dear  John  !"  she  exclaimed,  putting  two  of  the 
prettiest  hands  in  the  world  one  on  each  of  his  shoulders — 
"You  do^nt  think  I  shall  trust  myself  in  that  cat's 
cradle  !" 

John  looked  very  serious.  Eleanor  laughed  till  she  cried, 
and  her  husband  at  first  vexed,  looked  at  his  graceful  wife 
with  admiration,  as  she  danced  about  the  room  in  a  storm 
of  fairy  glee.  It  was  final.  The  next  day  a  neat  family 
carriage  took  them  out,  and  on  the  next  Eleanor  discovered 
that  there  was  quite  room  to  take  up  Mary  and  her  oldest 
child.  He  reserved  the  "  fast"  establishment  for  his  own 
rides — but  from  some  unexplained  cause  these  were  weekly 
growing  less  frequent. 

So  dropped  one  vagary.  "  Whew  !"  our  friend  whistled 
on  another  day,  as  he  looked  from  the  windo^ 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  Eleanor,  hastening  to  his 
side. 

"  There 's  that  fellow  Sam  the  groom,  in  a  hat  like  my 
fancy  straw — what  impudence  !" 

"  Why  John,"  said  his  wife,  "  I  thought  the  horrid  thing 
had  knocked  about  the  hall  long  enough,  and  I  gave  it  to 
him.  You  certainly  never  could  mean  to  wear  that  again  !" 
John's  whole  wardrobe  went  through  a  slow  but  sure  met- 
amorphose. But  we  cannot  take  all  the  items  of  his  refor- 
mation up  in  detail.  Pass  we  a  couple  of  years,  and  fancy 
him  seated  after  dinner  for  a  half  an  hour  or  so  in  his  den 


JACK      ALLOW  ay's      PRESENT.  15.0 

he  called  it — his  peculiar — but  Eleanor  would  be  thrusting 
herself  in. 

"  Now  see  its  father,  little  dear — gracious  how  the  child 
coughs  !     Is  that  a  vfcry  bad  cigar  John  ?" 

"  Very  good,  /  think,"  answered  the  husband  rather 
gruffly.  He  began  to  have  awkward  premonitions ;  and  (o 
see  that  his  enjoyment  in  literal  smoke  was  likely  to  end  in 
smoke  figurative. 

"  Do  'nt  the  baby  like  it — well  there  !  Rosy  shall  carry 
it  away  from  its  naughty  father — so  she  shall !  Really  my 
dear,  I  shall  be  compelled  to  follow  too — " 

John  began  something  very  much  like  an  oath — but 
ended  with,  "  Take  care  you  plague,  you  '11  burn  your  own 
cheek  !  Can 't  a  man  have  a  minute's  peace  of  his  life  for 
you?"  Not  while  he  is  smoking,  Eleanor  might  have 
answered — but  she  did  not.  She  knew  better  than  to  irri- 
tate the  husband  who  would  have  really  felt  very  much 
annoyed  and  lost,  if  her  neglect  had  left  him  in  quiet. — 
Snuff  boxes  disappeared  so  fast  that  John  declared  he 
would  have  no  more,  for  he  lost  a  little  fortune  in  them. 
As  to  the  mode  in  which  Eleanor  discouraged  the  weed  in 
the  other  and  worst  form,  we  leave  that  to  the  lips  of  ladies 
in  like  circumstances.  When  two  luxuries  are  incompatible, 
be  assured  the  least  attractive  will  be  surrendered. 

It  is  a  fact  in  natural  history  that,  after  due  time  spent  in 
listening,  babies  begin  to  learn  to  talk.  When  that  period 
had  arrived  to  John's  first  born,  his  second  being  still  in  the 
vocal  elements  denominated  squallics,  Mrs.  Alloway,  for  so 
we  must  now  begin  to  call  her,  met  her  husband  one  day 
in  the  door  as  he  came  in  to  dinner,  her  eyes — fine  eyes 
they  were  too — wide  open  with  astonishment,  and  both 
hands  up  : — "  Dear  John  !"  she  said,  "  you  must  be  careful, 
indeed  you  must!" 

"  Why  what 's  the  matter  now  ?"  asked  Alloway,  puz- 
zled to  guess  what  new  restriction  was  to  be  put  on  him. 
His  club  memberships  had  died  out  by  neglect ; — his  snuff 


160  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

and  cigars  were  given  up — his  tobacco  was  taken  very 
slyly  and  only  at  such  times  as  he  fancied  it  was  done  with- 
out detection  (Eleanor  knew  liis  tricks  in  this  respect,  but 
was  too  wise  to  be  too  rigid) ;  his  fancy  gig  had  not  only 
been  sold,  but  his  fast  horses  were  exchanged  for  family 
nags ;  his  dress  was  such  as  became  the  head  of  a  family ; 
his  hours  were  regular,  and  he  even  knew  enough  of  baby- 
ology,  to  prescribe  for  wind  in  the  stomach  !  All  this  had 
been  accomplished  in  about  five  years,  and  still  the  woman 
looked  for  more  !  "  What  is  the  matter  now  }"  he  asked, 
as  his  wife  continued  to  signify  her  astonishment  and  con- 
sternation, in  expressive  and  graceful  dumb  show. 

"  Why,  my  dear  our  little  John  to-day  said,"  (here  she 
whispered  it  in  his  ear)  "  as  plain  as  you  ever  spoke  it  in 
your  life.  I  was  going  to  correct  him,  but  he  said, '  that 's 
what  father  says,  and  /le  's  a  man  !'  What  could  I  do  then 
John  ?  Can  I  whip  the  child  for  imitating  his  father  ?  And 
in  a  little  whil^  baby  will  begin  to  talk,  and  three  profane 
swearers  in  a  family  of  four  is  really  three  too  many. 
Little  Johnny  will  b§  sure  to  teach  his  sister,  and  how  ter- 
rible that  will  be !" 

Poor  free  hearted,  free  spoken,  free  living  Jack  Alloway  ! 
If  the  truth  must  be  told,  his  first  impulse  was  to  check  this 
domestic  eruption  on  homoeopathic  principles,  similia  sim- 
ilibus  curantur,  and  administer  a  word  or  two  of  the  same 
kind  little  John  had  uttered ;  but  Eleanor  now  matronly, 
and  more  engaging  than  ever,  looked  so  sweet  in  the  ear- 
nestness of  her  expostulation,  that  the  expression  of  his  face 
turned  to  happy  interest,  as  he  watched  her  eloquent  coun- 
tenance. He  resolved  upon  amendment,  and  though  he 
uttered  no  word  of  promise  then,  Eleanor  did  not  let  him 
sleep  that  night,  till  the  word  was  spoken  and  sealed. 

As  John's  little  flock  increased  around  him,  he  was 
still  further,  by  gradual  and  therefore  not  irksome  steps, 
led  into  pattern  behaviour.  He  diminished  his  expenses, 
and  dispensed  with  the  useless  ones  almost  entirely,  in 


JACK     ALLOW  ay's      PRESENT.  161 

view  of  the  increasing  pecuniary  responsibilities  wliicli 
grew  upon  him.  He  learned  that  no  act  on  his  part, 
while  his  trusting  children  looked  up  to  him,  was  insig- 
nificant, and  in  seeking  the  good  of  his  offspring  he  se- 
cured his  own.  He  loved  his  wife  and  children  dearly, 
but  rationally,  and  this  holy  domestic  sentiment  was 
made  the  instrument  of  a  heart-reformation  to  both 
parents.  He  who  said  of  children,  "  Of  such  are  the  king- 
dom of  Heaven,"  has  made  them  His  ministers  on  earth, 
and  denounced  fearful  judgments  against  such  as  offend 
these  little  ones.  Truly,  to  parents  careless  of  these 
truths,  the  first  prayer  of  childhood,  and  the  constant 
form  in  manhood,  must  be  in  the  letter  only,  and  not  the 
spirit — for  they  cannot  feel  the  force  of  the  divine  for- 
mula, "  Our  Father  who  art  in  Heaven.'' 

Surrounded  by  a  happy,  healthy  group  of  little  ones, 
and  living  in  such  a  residence  as  comports  with  their 
health  and  his  own,  and  with  that  innocent  freedom  in 
which  childhood  and  manhood  best  fulfil  their  duty — 
when  last  we  saw  John  Allow^ay  he  had  just  subscribed 
to  the  temperance  movement ;  not  so  much  that  he  him- 
self needed  restraint,  as  for  the  example  of  others,  and  to 
put  an  end  to  the  wonder  of  his  children,  "  why  father 
did  not  join."  And  when  his  affectionate  sister  Mary 
dined  last  with  him,  upon  the  anniversary  of  his  wedding, 
she  made  him  a  roguish  present,  recalling  the  conversa- 
tion with  which  our  sketch  opens,  and  caused  a  hearty 
laugh  to  circulate  around  the  board.  John's  oldest  daugh- 
ter, Mary, obtained  the  apron  for  her  doll's  Sunday  wear; 
the  DISTAFF,  a  neat  golden  trinket,  Alloway  displays  at 
his  own  watch-chain.  Little  did  he  dream,  when  he  in- 
voked the  symbolic  present,  that  he  should  win  and  wear 
it ;  but  not  all  that  earth  could  give,  would  induce  him 
to  resign  his  title  to  it  now. 


14 


TO    YOUNG    SPIRITS. 


BY  J.   BAYARD  TAYLOR. 


Brethren  in  thought  and  years  ! 
Ye  on  whose  brows  the  morning  splendors  gleam— 

Who  look  on  skies  undimmed  by  cloudy  fears, 
And  changed  by  sunrise  to  a  golden  dream ; 

Or  ye  whose  lips,  in  childhood's  tender  day. 
The  cup  of  suffering  and  of  wo  have  known. 
Pause  for  a  moment  on  your  hurrying  way ! 
List  to  a  kindred  tone  ! 

Come  !  ye  are  young  and  strong ; 
Give  then  your  strength  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

Till  the  great  throne  of  many-visaged  Wrong 
Trembles  beneath  the  ardent  fire  of  Youth — 
Till  his  large  empire,  like  a  mountain  old. 
Quakes  with  the  heavings  of  the  flame  below. 
And,  sundered,  crashing  from  its  long-kept  hold, 
Falls  with  one  mighty  throe  ! 

Oh  !  'tis  a  glorious  strife  ! 
Life-long  and  toilsome  must  the  combat  be, 

But  for  the  fallen,  there  is  nobler  life, 
And  for  the  victors,  immortality  ! 

162 


TO      YOUNO      SPIRITS.  163 

He  who  has  battled  for  his  struggling  race, 
Heedless  of  what  the  world  might  name  renown 
Shall  from  the  glory  of  his  lofty  place 

On  kings  and  thrones  look  down  ! 

There's  many  a  toil  to  bear — 
Scoffing  and  scorn  from  many  a  meaner  soul, 

Heart-sickening  struggles  with  the  phantom  Care, 
And  oft  despair  to  reach  the  far-off  goal. 

Ye  must  in  silence  and  in  patience  wait 
For  the  glad  ripening  of  the  tardy  seed, 

While  Avarice,  'midst  his  golden  piles  elate, 
Reviles  the  noble  deed  ! 

Yet  bravely  bear  it  all. 
So  long  as  Vice,  with  bloody  chariot-wheel, 

Drives  o'er  the  groaning  world  she  keeps  in  thrall, 
And  man  forgets  that  fellow-man  can  feel ! 

The  wronged  and  suffering,  from  their  darkened  sphere, 
Will  aid  you  with  their  eloquence  of  prayer, 
And  hearts,  whose  wishes  reach  th'  Almighty's  ear, 
Will  ask  your  blessing  there  ! 

Not  with  a  warrior  tread 
Be  your  proud  marching,  o'er  the  waking  world — 

Not  over  plains  of  dying  and  of  dead, 
Where  the  swift  death  on  flaming  bolts  is  hurled ! 

Speak,  in  your  manhood,  words  whose  potent  fire 
Lights  the  dark  bosom  with  a  sudden  glow ; 
Bid  the  crushed  spirit  from  its  bonds  aspire — 
Teach  it,  itself  to  know  ! 

Touch  with  a  trusting  hand 
The  chords  of  feeling  in  the  deadened  heart, 
And  by  the  lonely  and  the  wretched  stand. 
Drying  their  bitter  tear-drops  as  they  start. 


164  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

Oh !  by  that  God  whose  breath  inspires  the  soul. 
That  work  of  mercy  will  not  be  in  vain, 
But  every  kindness  to  the  suffering,  roll 
In  blessing,  back  again  ! 

Brothers,  let  us  arouse  ! 
Shall  we  be  bound  in  earth's  benumbing  thrall  ? 
Is  there  not  freedom  written  on  our  brows  ? — 
Then  let  us  keep  it,  or  in  losing,  fall ! 

Say,  what  is  Freedom,  but  the  power  to  be 
Unled  by  Error  from  the  soul's  pure  light, 
And  but  to  God  and  Truth  to  bow  the  knee 
In  Hope,  forever  bright  ? 

Feel  we  not,  deep  within, 
A  spirit  mighty,  deathless  and  sublime  ; 

Whose  high,  pure  nature,  bids  us  scorn  all  sin, 
Whose  power  can  yield  defiance  unto  Time  ? 
Are  there  not  longings  for  a  loftier  crown 
Than  e'er  was  wreathed  from  Fame's  unfading  bough, 
Which,  with  its  blaze  of  ever-fresh  renown, 
Shall  gild  the  faithful  brow  ? 

Come,  then,  ere  morn  be  gone  ! 
Ere  the  pure  blossoms  of  the  spirit  fade — 

Ere  in  the  wildering  crowd,  as  life  rolls  on. 
The  heart  from  all  its  better  hopes  hath  strayed ! 

Shake  from  the  soul  each  sin-alluring  snare 
That  turns  to  earthly  flame  its  heaven-born  fires, 
And  men,  the  glorious  path  with  you  to  share. 
Will  leave  their  low  desires  ! 


THE    MURDERED   CZAR.* 

BY   W.  H.  C.  HOSMER. 
I. 

A  DARK  procession  from  the  tomb 

The  body  of  their  monarch  bore, 
With  blazing  torch  and  sable  plume, 

Infolded  in  a  shroud  of  gore. 
From  turret  and  from  tower  the  toll 

Of  chiming  bells  rose  in  the  air, 
While,  muffled  in  his  dusky  stole, 

The  holy  priest  knelt  down  in  prayer. 

II. 

A  stately  figure  joined  the  train. 

And  slowly  walked  behind  the  bier — 

Whose  haughty  spirit  strove  in  vain 
To  check  the  unavailing  tear. 

*  "  Paul  caused  the  corpse  of  his  father,  Peter  III.,  to  be  taken  up  and 
brought  to  the  palace,  to  receive  similar  honors  with  that  of  the  Em- 
press, his  wife.  Prince  Baratinsky  and  Count  Alexins  OrloflT,  two  of 
the  murderers  of  the  unfortunate  Czar,  were  fixed  on  to  officiate  as 
chief  mourners.  The  imperial  crown  was  placed  on  the  coffin  of  Peter; 
and  in  presence  of  the  assembled  court,  and  amidst  sable  hangings, 
lighted  tapers,  and  all  the  solemnity  of  wo,  the  two  mourners  took  their 
station.  Orloff,  whose  nerves  were  strong,  endured  the  scene  unshaken; 
but  his  companion  fainted  beneath  his  emotions." — Mayor. 

165 


166  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

No  golden  circlet  graced  his  head, 
Nor  glittered  on  his  breast  the  star, 

But  funeral  garb,  and  lordly  tread, 

Proclaimed  the  Mourner  and  the  Czar. 


III. 
When  nearer  to  the  palace  proud 

The  bearers  drew  in  dark  array. 
The  princely  weeper  said  aloud. 

To  young  and  old — "  Make  way  !   make  way  f" 
Like  flashing  waves  before  the  prow. 

Assembling  thousands  round  divide  ; 
And  solemnly  they  enter  now 

The  lofty  dwelling-place  of  Pride. 

IV. 

The  chandelier  and  lamp  threw  light 

On  every  object  in  the  hall ; 
And,  darker  than  the  wing  of  night. 

Broad  hangings  rustled  on  the  wall ; 
While  nobles,  in  superb  attire, 

And  prostrate  serf  their  homage  paid, 
Paul,  on  the  coffin  of  his  sire. 

The  diadem  of  Empire  laid. 

V. 
In  presence  of  the  courtiers  then. 

With  downcast  eye  and  timid  look, 
Reluctantly  two  noblemen 

Their  station  by  the  coffin  took. 
A  trembling  thrilled  each  iron  frame, 

And  bloodless  waxed  their  "  tell-tale"  cheeks — 
Oh,  Guili  and  ^gony  and  Shame 

Are  vultures  with  unsparing  beaks  I 


THE     MURDERED     CZAR.  167 

VI. 

The  taper  shed  a  ruddy  glare 

On  the  bruised  features  of  the  dead, 
And  gory  beard  and  clotted  hair 

In  all  awoke  an  icy  dread. 
Ah  !  fearfully  the  brow  was  still 

Contorted  by  the  pang  of  death, 
And  pomp  with  dust  accorded  ill, 

Robbed  of  mobility  and  breath. 


vir. 

Why  sits  that  ghastly  watcher  by 

The  corse,  with  phenzy  in  his  gaze  ? 
The  fearful  wildness  of  his  eye 

A  storm,  at  work  within,  betrays  : 
He  looks  upon  the  pall  and  shroud 

With  face,  as  stainless  marble,  pale, 
Afraid  the  slumberer  to  the  crowd 

Would  tell  the  heart-appalling  tale. 

vm. 
The  mystic  pencil  cannot  paint 

The  frightful  look  his  visage  wore. 
When,  reft  of  consciousness,  and  faint. 

He  sunk  exhausted  on  the  floor. 
Awaking  from  the  swoon,  with  hands 

Outspread  for  aid,  the  ruffian  cried — 
"  Vengeful  the  sheeted  victim  stands. 

With  arm  uplifted,  by  my  side  ! " 

DC. 
These  startling  words  *  his  guilt  reveal. 
His  bosom  wildly  throbs  with  fear  ; 

•  See  vol.  xxii.  p.  112,  Mayor's  Un.  His. 


168  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

Loud  shriek  of  death,  and  vain  appeal 
To  stony  hearts,  ring  in  his  ear  : 

The  cup  he  made  the  monarch  drain, 
With  poison  fraught,  he  now  beholds, 

And  clenches  in  his  hand  again 
The  napkin  with  its  bloody  folds. 

X. 

Ah  !  phantoms,  unallied  to  earth, 

That  other  eyes  cannot  discern. 
Are  feeding,  with  their  hellish  mirth. 

Fierce  flames  which  in  his  bosom  burn : 
In  vain  the  mind-destroying  bowl 

Was  brought  his  anguish  to  allay, 
No  draught  will  ever  from  his  soul 

The  stain  of  murder  wash  away. 


THE    INEBRIATE    FATHER. 

BY    MARIE    ROSEAU. 

AsHEDALE  had  its  stream — what  village  would  be  beau- 
tiful without  one  ?  It  was  a  clear,  wandering  creek, 
presenting  a  charming  variety  to  the  eye.  For  a  space 
it  would  move  slowly  and  demurely  along  in  a  straight 
line,  as  if  it  were  sinful  to  make  a  noise  or  deviate  from 
a  direct  course.  Again  it  would  wander  off  a  short  dis- 
tance in  a  gentle  curve,  and  then  suddenly  retrace  its 
way  back,  forming  a  little  oblong  island,  with  a  water 
willow  to  shade  it.  Oh  !  how  delightful  we  thought  it  to 
step  from  stone  to  stone,  carrying  our  shoes  and  stockings 
in  our  hands,  our  little  bare  feet  more  than  covered  with 
water,  and  balancing  ourselves  as  best  we  could,  that  we 
might  reach  this  spot  to  get  a  swing  upon  the  grape- 
vine, or  gather  the  prettiest  shells  we  could  find.  Truly 
our  ideas  as  to  what  composes  happiness  change  materi- 
ally as  we  grow  older !  Then  our  stream  would  dance 
playfully  along  over  the  stones,  reflecting  the  bright  rays 
of  the  sunshine,  and  showing  occasionally  a  golden  sun- 
fish,  tempting  us  to  convert  our  pins  into  fish-hooks  for 
his  especial  benefit,  upon  which  would  be  placed  some- 
thing nice  to  please  his  appetite.  We  wondered  that  he 
did  not  bite,  for  we  were  very  young  then,  and  had  not 
learned  the  art  of  baiting  successfully.  Again  it  would 
rush  impetuously  over  a  rock  in  the  deep  woods,  its 

15  169 


170  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

waters  so  closely  overshadowed  by  the  forest  trees  that 
the  sun  never  shone  upon  them,  seeming  to  bear  the 
dark  hues  of  passion. 

Near  this  spot  stood  old  Simon  Hunt's  house,  if  such  it 
might  be  called.  It  was  a  miserable  old  log  tenement 
with  two  square  openings  answering  for  windows,  and 
an  oblong  space  left  for  entrance.  Nothing  would  have 
tempted  one  of  us  children  to  go  near  Hunt's  after  dark ; 
and  many  a  day  have  I  sat  upon  a  hill  where  the  place 
was  visible  between  the  trees,  listening,  by  the  hour,  to 
tales  which  one  of  the  larger  girls  would  tell  of  deeds  of 
darkness  which  had  been  done  by  "old  Hunt,"  as  he 
was  familiarly  called  by  us,  although  he  could  not  have 
been  forty  years  of  age,  until  my  blood  was  chilled  and 
I  was  fearful  of  moving,  lest  the  noise  might  startle  some 
evil  spirit  that  was  at  his  bidding.  Many  of  these  sto- 
ries were  most  probably  drawn  from  Ellen  Day's  own 
fruitful  imagination;  still,  even  the  older  folks  looked 
upon  him  with  suspicion.  He  seemed  like  one  formed 
for  evil,  although  no  great  crime  had  been  proven  against 
him.  He  treated  his  family  unkindly— and  diminished 
wood-piles,  missing  poultry,  and  broken  fruit-trees  bore 
evidence  to  his  plundering  propensities ;  yet  these  were 
not  considered  enough  in  themselves,  by  the  peace-loving 
inhabitants  of  Ashedale,  to  bring  him  before  a  court  of 
justice.  No  one  knew  how,  or  when  he  came  to  the 
place.  The  owner  of  the  woods  lived  at  a  distance,  and 
the  dilapidated  cabin  had  long  been  considered  unten- 
antable. I  had  a  great  curiosity  to  see  his  family,  and 
would  frequently,  when  I  knew  he  was  away,  go  near 
enough  to  the  house  to  get  a  distinct  view,  but  at  the 
same  time  taking  care  to  keep  sufficiently  distant  to  be 
out  of  danger.  His  wife's  countenance  wore  that  calm, 
settled,  heart-broken  sadness  that  would  of  itself  have 
told  volumes  of  domestic  trials.  There  were  four  child- 
ren, the  eldest  ten,  and  the  youngest  almost  an  infant- 


THE  INEBRIATE   FATHER.         171 

They  never  seemed  disposed  to  mix  with  the  other  child- 
ren of  the  village,  except  once,  when  one  of  our  nuiubcr, 
bolder  than  the  rest,  having  held  out  a  biscuit  enticed  the 
little  boy  near.  He  started  eagerly  forward  to  take  it,  but 
his  eldest  sister,  a  quiet,  gentle-looking  girl,  with  the 
thoughtful  expression  of  womanhood  upon  her  face,  called 
him  back ;  he  instantly  obeyed,  and  taking  her  hand 
passed  on. 

Some  weeks  afterwards  I  was  walking  along  the 
creek,  picking  blackberries,  when  a  wasp  suddenly  stung 
me :  I  screamed  loudly  with  the  pain,  at  the  same  time 
upsetting  the  whole  of  my  small  stock  of  berries  into  the 
water.  Almost  immediately  Mary  Hunt  and  her  little 
brother  and  sister  appeared.  They  were  in  the  habit  of 
picking  berries  and  disposing  of  them  in  the  village,  and 
now  they  were  just  returning  from  the  woods  with  their 
baskets  full.  Seeing  my  trouble  she  came  up  to  me  and 
asked,  in  a  pleasant  voice,  what  was  the  matter.  I 
started,  but  her  kind  tone  dissipated  my  fear,  and  I  told 
her  my  difficulty.  She  put  down  her  basket,  and  leaning 
over  took  off  my  shoe  and  stocking,  and  after  applying 
some  cold  mud  to  the  place,  she  wrapped  around  my 
foot  some  dry  oak  leaves,  tying  it  up  with  a  piece  of 
twine  which  her  brother  produced  from  his  pocket ;  all 
the  while  consoling  me  with  sympathizing  words.  This 
kindness  on  the  part  of  one  from  whom  I  expected  such 
different  conduct,  won  my  heart  completely,  and  I  thanked 
her  over  and  over  again.  She  seemed  pleased  by  my 
manner,  and  bidding  me  good-bye,  passed  on  a  short 
distance,  when  they  paused  and  her  brother  whispered 
something  to  her ;  she  appeared  to  give  consent  to 
what  he  asked,  for  he  came  back  to  where  I  sat,  and 
taking  up  my  empty  basket  was  filling  it,  when  I  stopped 
him. 

"  Will  you  not  let  me  give  you  some  of  my  berries  ? " 
he  asked. 


172  THEFOUNTAIN. 

"Oh,  no  !"  I  said,  "for  I  only  want  a  few  to  play 
with,  while  you  gather  them  to  sell." 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "but  then  we  have  a  great  many 
more,  I  know,  than  we  shall  sell,  or  want  for  ourselves." 

I  still  refused  until  I  had  gained  a  promise  from  his 
sister  that  she  would  let  him  take  a  cake  from  me  the 
next  time  they  came  to  our  door  with  berries. 

Winter  came,  and  the  benevolent  inhabitants  of  Ashe- 
dale  pitied  the  family  in  the  log  cabin,  and  helped  them 
as  far  as  the  fierce  temper  of  "  old  Hunt,"  and  the  re- 
serve of  his  wife  and  children,  would  admit.  Mrs.  Hunt 
received  what  was  given  her  as  though  entirely  unused 
to  accepting  such  favors,  or,  as  if  performing  a  painful 
duty.  One  bitter  cold  night,  as  Mr.  Day  was  passing 
the  woods  on  his  way  home  from  the  county  town,  he 
heard  sounds  of  distress  that  seemed  to  proceed  from 
Hunt's  house.  He  sprang  hastily  from  his  sleigh,  and 
pushing  aside  the  thick  hanging  that  served  as  a  door, 
started  at  the  scene  which  presented  itself  to  view. 
There  lay  Hunt's  wife  and  the  younger  little  girl  on  the 
floor,  bleeding  and  insensible.  Mary  was  bending  over 
her  mother,  and  bathing  her  head  with  a  wet  cloth.  In 
one  corner  on  a  bundle  of  rags  lay  the  youngest  child  sob- 
bing in  a  smothered  tone,  as  if  wishing  to  relieve  itself  by 
tears,  yet  in  too  much  terror  to  cry  aloud ;  while  in  the 
other  end,  on  the  straw  bed,  lay  "  old  Hunt,"  overcome 
by  the  Uquor  he  had  been  drinking.  Mary  raised 
her  head  as  he  entered,  and  said,  in  a  low,  beseeching 
voice, 

"  Oh,  sir,  did  you  see  my  brother? " 

"  Where  is  he  ? "  asked  Mr.  Day. 

"  I  don't  know;  but  my  father  came  home  angry," 
replied  Mary,  her  voice  trembling  as  she  repeated  the 
words  ^  my  father,''  "and  put  George  out  of  doors  ;  and 
when  my  mother  begged  him  not  to  do  so,  he  pushed 
her  down,  knocking  her  head  against  the  fireplace.     Su- 


THE      INEBRIATE      FATHER.  173 

san  screamed  and  held  on  by  mother's  clothes,  and  fell 
with  her." 

This  was  the  first  time  that  Mary  had  ever  spoken  of 
her  father's  treatment  of  his  family.  The  neighbors 
had  repeatedly  questioned  her  upon  the  subject,  but  she 
always  refused  to  give  any  answer. 

"But  what  made  your  father  put  George  out?"  Mr. 
Day  inquired. 

"  He  told  George  to  go  out  and  buy  something  for  him 
to  eat,  and  he  could  not  go,  because  he  had  no  money. 
My  father  did  not  understand  him,  because  he  had 
been  drinking;  so  he  thought  George  wanted  to  disobey 
him,  and  he  said  he  would  take  him  down  to  the  creek 
and  make  him  stay  there  all  night. '^ 

It  was  well  for  "old  Hunt"  that  Mr.  Day  was  a  mild, 
amiable  man,  or  he  might  have  received  summary  pun- 
ishment equal  to  his  offence ;  but  he  quietly  resolved  in 
his  own  mind  to  have  him  arrested  the  next  day,  and 
then  taking  a  lantern  from  his  sleigh,  he  proceeded  to 
look  for  George.  He  found  him  insensible  and  benumbed 
with  cold,  and,  wrapping  him  up  in  the  buffalo  robe,  he 
put  him  in  his  sleigh  and  took  him  to  his  own  house.  A 
servant  was  then  despatched  to  "old  Hunt's"  with  bed- 
ding and  other  necessaries  for  the  relief  of  his  family,  fol- 
lowed by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Day  and  a  physician — good  Mrs. 
Day  having  consented  to  stay  there  all  night  with  her  hus- 
band, leaving  little  George  to  the  care  of  a  kind  neighbor. 

The  physician  found  Mrs.  Hunt  revived  and  not  as 
much  hurt  as  had  been  feared,  although  so  weakened  as 
to  require  medical  attendance ;  but  little  Susan's  head 
was  very  much  injured,  and  her  recovery  considered 
doubtful.  With  the  help  of  the  articles  which  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Day  had  sent,  both  mother  and  child  were  soon  as 
comfortably  disposed  of  as  possible  under  the  circum- 
stances. Morning  came  and  Mr.  Day  spoke  quietly  to 
Mrs.  Hunt  of  what  he  considered  his  duty — the  arrest- 

15* 


174  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

ing  of  her  husband.  She  started,  and  her  pale  cheek 
became  flushed  with  a  deep  purple,  and  for  a  few  mo- 
ments she  spoke  not :  then  rising  forward  in  the  bed,  and 
seizing  hold  of  his  hand,  with  a  voice  trembling  in  its 
earnestness,  she  begged  him  not  to  do  so. 

Mr.  Day  gazed  at  her  in  surprise,  as  he  said,  "  but,  Mrs. 
Hunt  you  surely  can  retain  no  feeling  of  affection  for  one 
of  your  husband's  bad  character — in  all  probability  the 
murderer  of  your  child  !" 

Her  lip  quivered,  and  with  a  choking  voice,  she  replied, 
"  he  was  not  always  so,  and  even  yet  I  sometimes  hope  to 
win  him  back  to  what  he  once  was." 

Her  entreaties  prevailed  so  far  with  the  good  natured 
Mr.  Day,  as  to  lead  him  to  refrain  for  a  time,  until  they 
saw  whether  the  child  recovered ;  upon  condition  that 
Hunt  would  promise  not  to  leave  the  house  until  then. 

It  was  strange  that  there  should  be  something  very  fa- 
miliar to  Mrs.  Day,  in  the  heart  broken  countenance  of  Mrs. 
Hunt,  and  stranger  still  that  the  association  should  be  con- 
nected with  the  happy  days  of  youth.  She  sat  gazing 
steadily  into  the  sad  face  before  her,  trying  to  account  for 
this  feeling,  when  suddenly  a  new  thought  struck  her,  and 
she  repeated  aloud, "  Rosa  Lincoln  !  Can  it  be  bright,  happy 
Rosa  Lincoln  ?" 

A  faint  smile  passed  over  the  face  of  the  invalid,  as  she 
answered,  "  Yes ;  I  am,  or  rather  was,  Rosa  Lincoln." 

It  would  be  useless  to  endeavour  to  portray  the  surprise 
of  Mrs.  Day  on  finding  that  the  wasted  being  before  her 
had  been  her  dearest  friend  at  school.  She  knew  that  she 
had  married  Simon  Willard  Hunt,  but  she  certainly  did  not 
expect  to  find  in  the  wretched  inebriate  Simon  Hunt,  the 
noble,  dignified,  and  talented  Willard  Hunt,  who  twelve 
years  before  won  the  heart  of  the  belle  of  her  native  village. 
Rosa's  father  died  shortly  after  her  marriage,  leaving  a 
large  property  solely  to  Willard  Hunt,  in  whom  he  placed 
every  confidence,  with  only  this  provision,  that  a  liberal  in- 


THE      INEBRIATE      F  A  T  II  E  K .  175 

come  should  be  allowed  to  his  widow  during  her  life. 
Hunt  then  removed  with  his  wile  and  her  mother  to  New 
York.  Every-where  his  society  was  courted,  and  he,  daz- 
zled by  the  brilliancy  of  his  position,  saw  not  his  way 
clearly.  Gradually  was  he  led  on,  step  by  step,  through 
the  different  grades  of  intemperance,  to  his  present  degra- 
dation. Mrs.  Lincoln's  health  had  always  been  very  del- 
icate. She  had  been  nurtured  in  prosperity,  and,  not  being 
able  to  bear  adversity,  she  sunk  under  it.  This  was  a  trial 
hard  for  Rosa  to  bear.  She  had  long  ceased  to  respect  the 
character  of  her  husband,  but  she  would  fain  cling  with 
something  like  affection  to  him,  who  had  once  formed  to 
her  a  world  of  happiness.  Her  mother's  death,  under  any 
circumstances,  would  have  been  a  severe  trial ;  but  that  her 
mother  should  die  through  the  misconduct  of  one  with 
whom  she  was  so  closely  connected,  was  misery  almost  be- 
yond endurance.  She  had  exerted  her  powers  to  the  ut- 
most to  provide  for  the  wants  of  her  children  and  sick 
mother.  Constant  application  to  her  needle,  through  the 
long  hours  of  midnight,  brought  on  a  disease  of  the  eyes, 
and  she  was  forced  to  follow  the  most  menial  employments, 
until  her  health  was  gone  and  her  spirit  broken :  yet  for 
her  children's  sake  she  forced  herself  to  live  through  this 
the  bitterest  woe  of  all.  Soon  after  they  were  obliged  to 
leave  the  mean  habitation  they  occupied,  on  account  of  her 
inability  to  pay  even  th^  small  pittance  demanded  for  rent, 
and  Hunt  removed  to  their  present  abode. 

It  was  late  in  the  morning  before  Hunt  was  aroused 
from  the  stupor  of  intoxication.  Dr.  Grant  was  there,  and 
the  sight  of  him  and  Mrs.  Day  recalled  to  his  mind  a  dim 
recollection  of  what  had  occurred  the  night  before.  Degra- 
ded as  he  was,  a  feeling  of  shame  came  over  him,  but,  ex- 
pecting reproach,  he  put  on  an  air  of  dogged  carelessness, 
as  he  threw  himself  upon  the  remains  of  an  old  bench  un- 
der one  of  the  windows.  His  wife  raised  her  eyes  upon 
hearing  the  noise,  and  then,  repressing  a  heavy  sigh,  turned 


176  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

away  her  head.  No  other  notice  v/as  taken  of  liim,  and 
the  doctor  continued  giving  orders  about  the  removal  of 
httle  Susan,  who  still  remained  insensible, — Mr.  Day  upon 
hearing  the  story  of  his  wife's  former  friend,  having  insisted 
upon  the  immediate  removal  of  the  family  to  a  comfortable 
house  belonging  to  him,  that  happened  then  to  be  vacant, 
and  which  the  neighbours  by  general  contribution  had  sup- 
plied with  furniture  sufficient  to  ensure  their  comfort. 

"  Doctor,"  asked  Mrs.  Hunt  anxiously,  as  he  was  about 
leaving,  "  is  there  any  hope  of  her  recovery  ?" 

"  I  would  not  deceive  you  by  false  hopes;"  he  replied  : 
"at  present  she  is  very  low;  I  shall  probably  be  better  able 
to  answer  your  question  to-morrow." 

The  effect  of  this  answer  upon  Simon  Hunt  was  electri- 
cal. He  jumped  up  hastily,  and,  seizing  Dr.  Grant's  arm, 
with  a  strong  force  drew  him  back,  as  he  was  crossing  the 
doorway.  Then  looking  earnestly  in  his  face,  he  said, 
"  Doctor,  did  you  say  that  Susan  would  not  recover  ?  do 
not  tell  me  that  there  is  no  hope!  Cure  her,  and  I  will  give 
you" — here  he  stopped,  suddenly  recollecting  his  extreme 
poverty.  "  I  have  nothing  to  give,"  he  continued,  "  but 
use  all  your  skill,  and  here  I  solemnly  promise  that  I  will 
work  steadily  for  years,  until  I  can  pay  you ;  and  God  will 
reward  you  till  then,  in  the  sweet  consciousness  he  will  give 
you  of  having  saved  the  life  of  one  of  his  own  cherubs,  as 
well  as  saving  me  from  adding  the  murder  of  a  very  angel 
to  the  long  list  of  my  other  crimes." 

Dr.  Grant  was  amazed — he  had  not  thought  the  miser- 
able man  capable  of  such  feeling.  He  did  not  know  that 
through  all  his  guilt  this  child  had  been  loved  fervently  by 
Simon  Hunt.  Towards  the  rest  of  his  family  at  times  he 
seemed  to  bear  a  deep  hatred,  and,  under  the  effects  of  in- 
toxication, treated  them  brutally ;  but  Susan  was  always 
treated  kindly,  and  she  alone  possessed  an  influence  over 
him.  Her  little  hand  often  restrained,  when  a  strong  arm 
would  have  been  powerless.     This  love  for  Susan  was  the 


THE      INEBRIATE      FATHER.  177 

hope  that  supported  Mrs.  Hunt  through  many  severe  trials. 
She  felt  while  this  lasted,  he  could  not  be  entirely  devoid 
of  feeling,  and  might  still  be  saved.  It  was  not  strange  that 
Simon  Hunt  loved  little  Susan,  for  it  would  have  required 
degradation  even  deeper  than  his,  to  look  upon  her  bright 
face  unmoved.  A  moss  rose  blooming  upon  the  burning 
deserts  of  Arabia,  could  not  have  seemed  more  out  of  place, 
than  she  appeared  to  be  amid  those  scenes  of  wretchedness. 
The  mother,  and  her  other  children,  bore  upon  their  faces 
the  marks  of  woe :  but  not  so  Susan — a  bright  smile  was 
always  playing  upon  her  face  of  exceeding  beauty ;  and 
her  bird-like  voice  rang  out  the  merry  thoughts  of  her 
heart,  when  the  rest  were  filled  with  sorrow.  It  was  not 
that  she  was  uiifeeling — oh,  no  !  her  changing  countenance, 
and  varying  expression  would  have  forbade  such  a  sup- 
position. But  she  was  full  of  hope,  and  seemed  formed  to 
be  loved  and  cherished,  and,  in  return,  to  love  and  cheer 
others. 

Dr.  Grant,  with  the  rest  of  the  villagers,  had  often  spoken 
of  the  extreme  loveliness  of  the  child,  but,  as  I  said  before, 
he  did  not  know  that  she  had  woven  herself,  as  it  were 
into  the  very  existence  of  her  inebriate  father,  and  he  won- 
dered at  the  feeling  Hunt  displayed.  The  good  doctor  had 
long  been  president  of  the  Ashedale  Temperance  Society, 
and  had  been  the  means  of  reforming  many  a  drunkard ; 
but  "old  Hunt,"  seemed  so  wicked,  that  he  thought  all 
efforts  made  for  him  would  be  vain.  Now  he  saw  him  in 
a  new  light,  and  he  felt  that  there  was  still  hope ;  so  re- 
leasing his  arm  from  the  father's  grasp,  he  said, "  Mr.  Hunt, 
I  will  promise  you  to  use  every  effort  in  my  power  for  the 
restoration  of  your  child,  not  for  money,  or  for  years  of  ser- 
vice, but  on  condition  that  you  will  sign  this  very  hour  a 
temperance  pledge  that  I  have  in  my  pocket." 

Hunt  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  replied,  "  Doctor, 
if  I  were  to  make  such  a  promise,  I  would  keep  it,  even  if 
it  were  to  kill  me." 


178  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  Dr.  Grant. 

Hunt  seemed  to  be  thinking  for  about  a  minute,  when 
little  Susan,  after  giving  a  heavy  sigh,  repeated  the  word 
^  father.^  She  was  unconscious  of  what  she  said,  but  this 
was  the  first  word  that  she  had  spoken  since  the  night  be- 
fore, and  it  decided  the  father.  He  reached  his  hand  to  the 
doctor,  and  said,  "  Give  me  the  paper,  and  I  promise  you, 
that  if  God,  whom  I  have  so  fearfully  disobeyed,  will  but 
aid  me,  and,  if  with  such  assistance  it  is  in  the  power  of 
mortal,  I  will  never  drink  again." 

""With  such  help  you  cannot  fail,"  answered  the  doctor, 
as  Hunt  signed  the  paper. 

Little  Susan  recovered,  again  to  cheer  the  hearts  of  hei 
parents.  Once  more  Mrs.  Hunt's  sorrowful  face  wore  a 
smile,  and  Mary's  countenance  lost  its  sad  expression. 


'J"  W  M  IL   ©  E  If  ®  [Fi  ig    If  ti  L  ■]  SI 


PAUL    BEFORE   FELIX. 


BY   MRS.   C.  H.  ESLING. 


Enthroned  in  state  sat  Felix  of  Cesarea, 
While  Paul,  the  man  of  God,  discoursed  of  heaven ; 
First  spake  he  of  the  light  that  gilds  the  soul, 
The  glorious  light  of  righteousness,  the  ray- 
That  like  a  star  illumes  the  clouds  of  night. 
The  blessed  faith  of  Christ,  the  manger  born. 
Humble  of  heart,  but  glorious  of  soul. 

Felix  was  mute  while  the  Apostle  spoke 
Of  the  bright  things  of  heaven,  of  messengers 
That  stood,  in  vestal  raiment,  round  the  throne 
Of  the  great  God  Almighty — of  the  choir 
That  hymned  incessant  worship  to  his  name. 
Of  bands  of  brothers  parted  on  the  earth. 
United  firmly  in  his  kingdom  there  ; 
Of  weeping  mourners,  whose  wrung  hearts  attest 
That  earth  is  no  abiding  place — but  God, 
Won  by  the  light  of  righteousness  for  aye 
Endureth  to  the  end. 

Felix  was  moved, 
But  Paul,  by  holy  inspiration  fired. 
Still  pictured  to  his  fast  awaking  sense 
What  deeds  on  earth  won  that  bright  home  on  high ; 

179 


180  PAUL  BEFORE  FELIX. 

He  spake  of  Temperance,  that  pure  guide,  who  leaned 

In  watchful  vigilance  beside  our  souls. 

Winning  them  from  that  darker  fiend,  who  stood 

Between  them  and  their  glorious  heritage  ; 

That  gentle  minister,  whose  pleasing  haunts 

Are  found  in  grassy  dells,  and  flowery  vales, 

In  nature's  walks,  beneath  a  willow  shade, 

Wherever  glides  a  little  running  stream. 

Wherever  leaps  a  torrent,  bold  and  strong. 

Where  e'er  a  fountain  sings  its  silvery  tune. 

Where  e'er  a  bright  cascade,  with  flashing  gleam 

Scatters  its  foamy  waters  to  the  sun. 

Her  influence  soft  is  felt,  with  peace,  and  love, 

With  hope,  and  health,  and  happiness,  she  lures 

Her  votaries  to  the  shrine,  the  pure  free  gift 

Of  a  beneficent  and  loving  God, 

She  offers  unto  them,  a  bright  gemm'd  cup. 

With  dewy  diamonds  sparkling  round  its  brim, 

Fresh  from  the  fount  of  heaven. 

He  listen'd  on 
'Till  Paul  spake  of  the  fearful  day  to  come, 
The  day  of  retribution,  when  the  heavens 
Shall  be  roll'd  up  even  as  a  burning  scroll, 
And  all  our  acts  asked  of  us  at  our  hands. 
Then  Felix  trembled,  bidding  him  begone 
'Till  a  convenient  season. — Now  it  is. 
Accept  the  hand  held  out  to  thee  in  love, 
And  like  those  spirits  round  the  eternal  throne, 
Step  forth  in  all  thy  purity  of  soul. 
And  hymn  incessant  worship  to  the  cause 
Of  peaceful,  truthful  Temperance. 


LAMENTATIONS  III.  33. 


"  For  he  doth  not  afflict  willingly,  {in  Margin,  '  From  the  heart,')  nor  grieve  the 
children  of  men." 


BY  REV.  WALTER  S.  DRYSDALE. 

As  when  God's  finger  shuts  the  eye  of  day, 

That  man  may  see  the  bright  and  countless  orbs 
That  gem  immensity — nor  think  that  he  absorbs, 

With  his  small  world,  His  utter  care  ; — so  may 
We,  when  the  night  of  sorrow  settles  down, 
And  a  felt  darkness  o'er  the  spirit  creeps, 
Look  out  upon  the  wide,  mysterious  deeps 
Of  Providence,  and  see  bright  stars  ; — so  drown 

Our  rebel  mutt'rings  with  the  silent  thought 

That  God  does  not  afflict  us  "  from  his  heart," 
But  that,  when  with  the  light  of  joy  He  bids  us  part, 

'  Tis  that  we  may  look  up  to  stars  in  heav'n — and  love  Him 
as  we  ought. 

August  12,  1846. 


16  181 


MIND  AND   EDUCATION. 

OR  THE  EFFECT  OE  CIECUMSTANCES  ON  CHARACTER. 


BY   HORACE   GREELEY. 


No  reflecting  mind  can  hesitate  to  admit  that  to  a  great 
extent  the  Circumstances  shape  the  Man.  None  of  us 
would  have  difficuhy  in  pointing  out  among  his  circle  one 
at  least  who  would-be  a  Catholic  at  Rome,  a  Turk  (if 
born  such)  at  Constantinople,  an  idolater  at  Pekin — would 
it  be  as  easy  to  instance  one  who  would  not  be  thus 
moulded  ?  As  with  the  highest  of  all  human  affirma- 
tions— Faith  in  God — so  with  our  lower  deeds  and  devel- 
opments. All  know  that  the  mountaineer  is  more  hardy 
than  the  dweller  in  the  vales  beneath — the  native  of  a 
rugged  climate  than  he  who  is  ripened  beneath  an  equa- 
torial sun.  Have  not  the  raw  breezes  from  snow-clad 
heights  been  ever  held  an  inspiration  to  the  soul  of  Liber- 
ty ?  Is  not  the  sailor  oftenest  born  beside  the  heaving 
expanse  which  he  chooses  for  his  home  ?  I  would  not 
explain  all  differences  of  character  or  capacity  by  the 
action  of  extraneous  influences  on  the  immortal  spirit — 
the  organs  of  the  Phrenologist,  the  decrees  of  the  fatalist, 
the  circumstances  of  the  Owenite — and  yet  I  shrink  from 
the  temerity  of  setting  hounds  to  their  sway.  Though 
we  speak  of  the  inscrutable  ways  of  the  Deity,  we  accuse 
only  our  own  imperfectness  of  vision.  The  eye  of  Faith, 
and  not  less  that  of  Reason,  recognizes  in  all  His  ways 

182 


MIND     AND     EDUCATION.  1S3 

regular  successions  of  effect  to  cause,  from  tlie  warniiiig 
into  life  of  an  insect  to  the  creation  of  a  world.  If,  then, 
we  read  that  the  son  and  heir  of  a  wise  and  good  ruler 
proved  a  weak  yet  bloody  tyrant,  let  us  not  rashly  infer 
the  procession  of  evil  from  good.  We  have  yet  to  be 
assured  that  the  good  king  was  an  equally  good  father — 
that  pressing  cares  of  state,  or  possibly  some  defect  of 
character,  did  not  incline  him  to  neglect  the  great  duty  of 
training  up  his  son,  and  imbuing  him  with  the  seeds 
of  all  moral  good.  So  with  the  reprobate  and  outcast 
scion  of  an  exemplary  house — we  say^  indeed,  that  his 
opportunities  of  good  were  equal  to  those  of  his  brethren, 
and  his  temptations  to  wrong  no  greater  than  theirs  ;  but 
how  do  we  know?  It  were  well  for  the  safety  of  our 
ready  and  confident  assertions,  if  we  had  first  assured 
ourselves  that  no  inherent  vice  of  physical  organization — 
no  bodily  defect  preceding  the  susceptibility  to  a  moral 
impression — no  silent,  unnoted,  but  yet  potent  agency, 
has  produced  the  disparity  we  observe  and  lament — before 
we  had  so  positively  concluded  that  men  may  gather 
grapes  of  thorns  or  figs  of  thistles. 

Yet  let  us  not  hotly  and  heedlessly  pursue  this  truth 
till  we  lose  ourselves  and  it  in  the  mazes  of  error,  the 
opposite  of  that  we  would  dissipate.  There  is  very  much 
of  human  attainment  dependent  on  Circumstances ;  let 
us  not  forget  how  much  also — I  will  not  say  how  vastly 
more — depends  on  essential  Man.  There  is  a  deplorably 
immense  multitude  who  live  but  to  eat  bounteously  and 
daintily — with  whom  the  sum  of  life  is  practically  to 
compass  the  largest  amount  of  rich  viands  and  gaudy 
trappings,  with  the  smallest  outlay  of  effort  or  persever- 
ance to  procure  thorn — this  mass  will  be  at  Rome  Ro- 
mans, at  Moscow  Russians,  and  nothing  more.  There 
will  be  some  small  varieties  or  shadings  of  individual 
character,  calculated  to  gratify  by  their  study  the  minute 
curiosity  of  an  entomologist,  and  interesting  to  him  only. 


184  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

But  let  one  of  these  human  ephemera  be  awakened,  how- 
ever casually  or  blindly,  to  the  higher  impulses,  the 
nobler  ends  of  our  being,  and  he  is  instantly  transferred 
to  a  different  world — or  rather  the  world  which  surrounds 
him  takes  on  a  different  aspect,  and  what  before  was 
bleak  waste,  or  dull  expanse  of  wooded  height  and  low 
herbage,  assumes  a  deep,  spiritual  significance.  To  his 
unfolding,  wondering  soul,  Nature  is  no  more  a  poet's 
rhapsody,  a  chemist's  generalization,  but  a  living  pres- 
ence, a  solemn  yet  cheering  companionship.  No  matter 
whether  he  be,  in  social  position,  a  peer  or  a  peasant,  by 
birth  Danish  or  Egyptian, — one  glance  at  the  world  within 
has  placed  him  with  those  whose  countrymen  and  breth- 
ren are  mankind.  He  has  no  need  now  to  change  his 
daily  pursuit  or  outward  condition,  for  he  has  risen  by 
inevitable  force  to  an  atmosphere  of  serenity,  above  the 
influence  of  merely  external  influences  and  petty  limita- 
tions. He  has  not  toilsomely  but  naturally  attained  a 
condition  in  which  the  soul  no  longer  blindly  pants  for 
eminence  or  homage,  but  realizes  intensely  that  nobly  to 
do,  for  the  sake  of  nobly  doing  and  its  intrinsic  results — 
rightly  to  be,  for  the  sake  of  rightly  being — discarding 
"  the  lust  to  shine  or  rule,"  is  the  true  end  of  life. 

And  here  let  me  hazard  the  remark,  that  our  inquiet- 
ness,  our  ant-hill  bustle,  is  the  severest  criticism  on  our 
present  intellectual  condition  and  effort.  True  greatness 
may  be  said  to  resemble  the  water  in  some  perennial 
fountain,  which  rises  ever  and  spontaneously,  because  in 
communication  with  some  exhaustless  reservoir  more 
capacious  and  higher  than  itself;  while  the  effort  to  be 
great  is  like  the  stream  forced  up  by  some  engine  or  hy- 
drant, which  towers  a  moment  unsteadily,  and  then  falls 
to  water  but  the  weeds  by  the  way-side.  And  thus  our 
young  men  of  promise,  who  would  seem  to  be  touched 
by  a  live  coal  from  off  the  altar  of  Genius — whom  we 
are  led  fondly  to  regard  as  the  light  and  hope  of  our 


MIND     AND     EDUCATION.  185 

age — the  heralds  and  the  hasteners  of  that  fairer  future 
which  our  hearts  so  throbbingly  anticipate — seem  for  the 
most  part  to  lack  that  element  of  natural  quietude,  of 
unconscious  strength,  which  we  are  rightly  accustomed 
to  consider  a  prediction  and  an  accompaniment  of  the 
highest  manhood.  Here  in  some  rude  hamlet — in  some 
boorish  neighbourhood — there  starts  into  view  a  rare 
youth,  whom  the  Divine  spark  would  seem  to  have 
quickened — who  bids  fair  to  freshen  by  at  least  a  chaplet 
the  dusty  pathway  of  human  endeavour.  But  forthwith 
the  genius  must  be  bandaged  into  rigidity — some  Educa- 
tion Society,  or  kindred  contrivance  for  the  promotion  of 
dullness  and  mediocrity,  must  take  hold  of  him  and  place 
him  in  its  go-cart — there  must  be  tomes  of  word-know- 
ledge and  the  petrifactions  of  bygone  wisdom  hurled 
through  his  cranium — he  must  be  led  away  from  all  use- 
ful labour  of  the  hands,  and  his  already  precocious  intel- 
lect subjected  to  the  hot-house  culture  of  some  seminary, 
no  matter  how  unsuited  to  his  mental  or  social  condition ; 
thus  losing  his  independence,  essential  and  pecuniary, 
and  putting  his  whole  life  upon  a  single  throw  of  the 
dice,  and  they  so  loaded  that  the  chances  are  heavily 
against  him.  And  this  is  called  developing  the  man  and 
making  the  most  of  his  natural  gifts,  though  it  would 
seem  quite  as  likely  to  blast  them  altogether.  With  new 
scenes  and  an  utter  transformation  of  attitude  and  aims, 
come  strange  and  dizzying  excitement,  extravagant  hopes, 
inordinate  ambition,  along  with  novel  temptings  to  dis- 
sipation on  the  one  hand,  as  well  as  to  excessive  study 
on  the  other.  I  will  not  say  that  the  result  of  this  course 
may  not  in  most  instances  be  satisfactory ;  I  only  urge 
that  you  put  at  hazard  the  youth  whom  Nature  has 
marked  for  noble  ends,  trusting  to  make  of  him  the  man 
of  profound  acquirements,  who,  after  all,  may  be  worth 
less  than  the  material  out  of  which  he  was  constructed 
May  we  not  rather  trust  something  to  Nature  ?  Would 
J6* 


186  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

we  willingly  exchange  to-day  the  Robert  Burns  she 
gave  us  for  his  counterpart  educated  in  a  University  ? 
Would  we  not  prefer  that  the  poor,  rudely-taught  Ayr- 
shire ploughman  had  never  seen  Edinburgh  and  its  culti- 
vated circles  at  all  ? 

And  yet  I  have  only  taken  hold  of  one  corner  of  the  forcing 
system.  Its  widest  if  not  its  worst  evils  are  felt  by  those  our 
impromptu  collegian  leaves  behind  him — in  the  conviction 
impressed  upon  the  youth  left  in  the  hamlet  that  they  can 
never  be  any  thing  but  ox-drivers,  because  they  cannot  enjoy 
the  advantages  of  what  is  termed  a  classical  education. 
There  the  poison  of  disquiet  and  discontent — the  irresolution 
to  act  worthily  under  a  mistaken  impression  that  adverse  cir- 
cumstances have  forbidden  that  any  thing  shall  worthily  be 
done,  I  confess  I  look  with  anxiety  on  what  seems  to  me 
the  perverted  aspiration  so  universal  among  us.  There  is 
an  incessant  straining  for  outward  and  visible  advantages — 
to  be  Legislators,  Governors,  professional  men.  Teachers — 
there  is  too  little  appreciation  of  that  greatness  which  is  in- 
trinsic, and  above  the  reach  of  accident.  I  am  not  insen- 
sible to  the  advantages  of  a  systematic  induction  into  all  the 
arcana  of  science, — of  a  knowledge  of  languages,  and  a  mas- 
tery of  their  vast  treasures — the  possession  even  of  power 
and  its  honors.  All  these  are  well  in  their  way,  but  they 
are  not  within  the  legitimate  reach  of  all  who  feel  that  they 
have  souls.  More  intently  than  even  these  I  would  have 
our  young  men  contemplate  and  be  moulded  upon  such 
characters  and  lives  as  those  of  our  Franklin,  the  penniless 
active  apprentice,  the  thriving,  contented  mechanic,  the 
peerless  philosopher,  the  idolized  yet  not  flattered  ambas- 
sador ;  our  Washington,  carrying  the  surveyor's  chain 
through  swamp  and  brier,  forming  with  his  own  hatchet  a 
rude  raft  for  crossing  the  deep-shaded,  savage-hunted  Ohio, 
long  and  ably  defending  his  country  at  the  head  of  her 
armies,  at  length  laying  aside  the  cares  of  a  nation's  des- 
tinies, resisting  the  affectionate  entreaties  of  millions  that  he 


MIND     AND     EDUCATION.  1S7 

would  continue  to  bear  sway  over  half  a  continent,  in  order 
that  he  may  enjoy  for  the  brief  remainder  of  an  active  glo- 
rious life,  the  blessing  of  the  domestic  fire-side,  the  un- 
troubled sleep  wliich  comes  only  to  the  couch  of  private 
life.  There  is  here  a  sweet  unconsciousness  of  greatness, 
that  we  realize  and  cling  to  at  a  glance.  We  recognise 
under  every  change  of  circumstances,  the  strong  and  true 
man,  superior  to  any  freak  of  Fortune.  No  culture  could 
have  made  these  men  more  or  less  than  they  appear  alike 
to  us,  and  to  all  observers.  Is  not  the  lesson  they  teach  us 
at  once  distinct  and  invigorating  ? 

Let  me  not  be  misunderstood.  I  value  and  prize  learn- 
ing, knowledge,  culture,  while  esteeming  Self-Culture  and 
self-development  the  sum  of  them  all.  I  would  have  no 
youth  reject  facilities  for  acquiring  them  which  may  fairly 
and  justly  present  themselves,  so  that  he  may  embrace  them 
without  sacrifice  of  his  proper  independence,  or  neglect  of  his 
proper  duties  and  responsibilities  as  a  son,  a  brother,  a  cit- 
izen. What  I  object  to,  is  the  too  common  notion  that  the 
higher  education  of  the  Schools  is  essential  to  his  develop- 
ment and  his  usefulness  in  life ;  thus  making  the  circum- 
stance every  thing,  the  man  nothing.  If  I  have  not  incor- 
rectly observed,  the  effect  of  this  prevalent  impression  is 
often  to  pervert  and  misplace  the  individual  whom  it  spe- 
cially contemplates,  while  it  is  morally  certain  to  work  in- 
jury to  the  great  mass  of  his  brethren  by  original  condition. 
A  youth  in  humble  life  evinces  talent,  genius,  or  the  love 
of  knowledge,  and  facility  of  acquiring  it,  which  are  quite 
commonly  confounded  with  either  or  both.  Forthwith  he 
must  be  taken  hold  of  and  transplanted,  and  stimulated  to 
acquirement,  in  an  atmosphere  and  under  influences  wholly 
different  from  those  which  have  thus  far  nourished  and 
quickened  him.  Now  I  do  not  say  that  this  novel,  stimu- 
lating process  will  necessarily  mildew  or  distort  him — I  do 
not  say  that  he  is  inevitably  thrust  by  it  into  a  strange  orbit, 
for  which  he  is  unbalanced  and  unfitted — I  do  not  say  that 


188  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

he  will  be  educated  into  flightiiiess  or  dnncehood,  though 
such  cases  may  be — have  been.  What  I  would  most  ear- 
nestly insist  on,  is  this,  that  the  continual  repetition  of  this 
process,  confirms  our  aspiring  youth  in  the  mistaken  im- 
pression that  they  can  be  nothing  without  a  collegiate  edu- 
cation, and  a  "profession,"  while  it  depresses  and  stunts  the 
undistinguished  many  by  a  still  keener  humiliation.  They 
had  not  hoped  or  aspired  to  give  light  to  others — they  had 
presumed  only  to  sun  themselves  in  the  rays  of  intellect 
which  had  burst  on  their  own  unnoted  sphere.  In  the 
young  aspirant,  to  whom  their  village,  their  class,  had 
given  birth,  they  recognised  with  gladness  and  pride  an 
evidence  of  the  essential  brotherhood  of  man — a  link  be- 
tween the  lowliest  and  the  most  exalted.  He  has  shed  a 
redeeming  halo  of  glory  and  beauty,  of  hope  and  joy,  over 
the  triteness  and  drudgery  of  their  daily  paths.  But  in  the 
first  moment  of  their  fond  exultation,  the  unfolding  genius 
expands  its  new-formed  wings  and  soars  beyond  their 
sphere,  leaving  them  to  gaze  with  sinking  hearts  on  its  as- 
cending, receding  flight,  troubled  and  depressed  where  they 
should  have  been  assured  and  strengthened.  As  a  farmer, 
an  artisan  in  their  midst,  he  would  have  been  their  glory 
and  blessing — their  "  guide,  philosopher  and  friend" — for 
there  is  nothing  in  the  contact  of  genius  which  discourages 
or  disconcerts ;  but  he  flies  away  to  some  distant  city  or 
seminary,  and  now  he  is  no  longer  o/'them,  but  has  visibly 
enrolled  himself  in  a  different  class,  whose  members  they 
may  admire,  look  up  to,  and  even  reverence,  but  cannot 
clasp  in  the  bonds  of  a  true  and  genial  sympathy.  There 
are  too  many  folds  of  papyrus  between  his  heart  and  theirs. 
What  I  would  urge  then,  is  this,  that  the  deep  want  of  our 
time  is  not  a  greater  number  of  scholars,  professional  men, 
pastors,  educators,  (though  possibly  there  may  be  some  im- 
provement here  in  the  quality) :  the  need  of  new,  strong, 
penetrating  and  healthy  men  is  felt  rather  in  the  less  notice- 
able walks  of  life.     We  need  to  bring  the  sunlight  of  Gen 


MIND     AND     EDUCATION.  1S9 

ius  to  bear  on  the  common  walks — to  dignify  the  sphere  as 
well  as  facilitate  the  operations  of  the  useful  arts ;  to  hallow 
and  exalt  the  pathway  of  honest,  unpretending  industry. 
It  is  here  that  the  next  decided  movement  is  needed,  and 
will  be  made  in  the  way  of  human  progress — not  a  pushing 
forward  of  the  van-guard,  but  a  bringing  up  of  the  main 
body.  The  deep  want  of  the  time  is  that  the  vast  resources 
and  capacities  of  mind,  the  far  stretching  powers  of  Genius 
and  of  science,  be  brought  to  bear  practically  and  intimately 
on  agriculture,  the  mechanic  arts,  and  all  the  now  rude  and 
simple  processes  of  day  labour,  and  not  merely  that  these 
processes  may  be  perfected  and  accelerated,  but  that  the 
benefits  of  the  improvement  may  accrue  in  at  least  equal 
measure  to  those  whose  accustomed  means  of  livelihood — 
scanty  at  best — are  interfered  with  and  overturned  by  the 
change.  Not  merely  that  tliese  be  measurably  enriched, 
but  that  they  be  informed  and  elevated  by  the  vast  indus- 
trial transformations  now  in  progress  or  in  embryo,  is  the 
obvious  requirement.  Here  opens  a  field  for  truly  heroic 
exertion  and  achievement,  far  wider  and  nobler  than  that 
of  any  political  heroism  of  ancient  or  modern  time,  because 
its  results  must  be  deeper,  more  pervading,  more  enduring. 
I  would  insist,  then,  that  our  youth  of  promise,  shall  not  be 
divorced  from  the  physical  toil,  the  material  interests  of  our 
and  their  natal  condition,  while  qualifying  themselves  for 
the  highest  spheres  of  usefulness  and  endeavour.  I  would 
not  have  them,  like  Geography  in  our  atlasses,  contemplate 
that  hemisphere  in  which  the  greatest  advances  have 
already  been  effected,  to  the  exclusion  of  that  wherein  the 
greatest  triumphs  yet  remain  to  be  achieved.  I  would  not 
have  them  bedeck  themselves  in  the  spoils  of  by-gone  vic- 
tories, and  forget  that  the  adversaries.  Ignorance  and  Ob- 
stacle yet  remain  formidable  and  imminent. 

But  above  all  I  would  have  no  youth  feel  that  he  is  de- 
prived the  opportunities  of  a  useful  and  honourable,  if  he 
please,  a  lofty  and  heroic  career,  because  the  means  of  ob- 


190  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

taining  a  classical  education  are  denied  him.  I  will  not 
point  him  to  the  many  who  have  inscribed  their  names  high 
on  the  rolls  of  enviable  fame  without  such  education,  for 
the  logic  therein  implied  might  as  well  be  used  to  reconcile 
him  to  the  loss  of  an  eye  or  an  arm.  I  will  not  argue  to 
him  that  circumstances  are  indifferent  or  unimportant;  I 
have  freely  admitted  the  contrary.  But  I  would  urge  to 
such  a  one  that  the  essential  circumstance  is  the  awakening 
of  the  soul  to  a  consciousness  of  its  own  powers  and  res- 
ponsibihties,  and  that  this  is  determined  in  the  very  fact  of 
his  seeking,  with  eye  single  and  heart  pure,  a  larger  devel- 
opment, a  more  thorough  culture.  This  point  attained,  let 
him  doubt  nothing,  fear  nothing,  save  his  own  steadiness 
of  purpose,  and  loftiness  of  aim.  Be  not  discouraged,  then, 
awakened  youth  in  some  lowly  cottage,  some  boorish  val- 
ley, by  the  magnitude  of  others'  attainments,  the  richness 
of  others'  facilities  for  acquiring  and  investigating,  as  con- 
trasted with  the  seeming  poverty  of  your  own  ;  but  remem- 
ber and  be  reverently  thankful  that  the  same  high  stars 
which,  shining  so  brightly  upon  the  palace,  the  university, 
the  senate-house,  have  kindled  the  souls  of  philosophers, 
sages,  statesmen,  in  time  past,  now  look  down  as  kindly  in- 
spiringly  on  you ;  and  in  the  fact,  that  they  have  touched 
an  answering  chord  within  you,  is  an  earnest  that  their 
companionship  shall  never  more  be  sullen  nor  fruitless. 
From  this  hour  shall  all  Nature  be  your  teacher,  your  min- 
istrant ;  her  infinite  grandeur  no  longer  a  barren  pageant ; 
her  weird  and  solemn  voices  no  more  unmeaning  sounds. 
Though  they  should  come  to  you  no  more  at  second  hand, 
from  the  lips  of  her  Pindar,  her  Shakspeare,  they  can  never 
more  be  hushed  or  unheeded ;  they  have  passed  from 
the  realm  of  darkness,  of  doubt,  of  speculation,  and  become 
to  you  the  deepest  and  grandest  realities  of  Human  Life  ! 


y  J  4;  J  -r  J  pi  s     t  >j  £    s  J  c  ii  , 


THE   TEMPERAJNCE  BANNER. 

BY   THE   EDITOR. 

Not  in  the  brazen  pomp  of  war, 

Not  with  the  sound  of  martial  drum, 

Not  with  the  bUght  of  wound  and  scar, 

Doth  the  mighty  conqueror.  Temperance,  come 

His  arms  are  the  things  that  make  for  peace — 

His  contests  bid  all  warfare  cease. 

Not  in  the  dew  of  the  widow's  tear 

Like  the  warrior's  wreath,  is  his  chaplet  green ; 
Before  him  runs  no  shivering  fear 

And  in  his  train  no  woe  is  seen, — 
But  he  wipes  the  tear  from  Sorrow's  eyes. 
And  bids  from  the  dust  the  stricken  arise. 

Not  in  the  breath  of  the  orphan's  sigh 
Like  warlike  flag,  doth  his  banner  wave, 

Around  him  sounds  no  wailing  cry, 
Beside  him  gapes  no  hideous  grave, — 

But,  in  his  care,  the  orphans  blest 

Strew  flowers  on  the  place  where  their  fathers  rest, 

Not  in  the  hoarse  and  husky  voice 
Of  fiends  triumphant,  peals  our  shout. 

But  the  cheerful  heart  that  must  rejoice 
In  musical  utterance,  gushes  out, — 

191 


192  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

As  the  water  glad,  from  the  hidden  spring, 
Seeketh  the  hght  to  dance  and  sing. 

Proud  is  the  Banner  that  we  bear, 

With  Love  emblazoned  upon  its  fold, — 

Love  that  can  soothe  all  woes  and  care. 
Love  that  does  gild  refined  gold  ; 

No  sense  of  alms  the  spirit  may  fret. 

When  a  brother  receives  a  brother's  debt. 

Purity  washes  away  the  stain. 

Fidelity  mentions  it  never  more, — 

The  fallen  man  is  a  man  again, 

And  wins  more  friends  than  he  knew  before ; 

Nor,  in  adversity,  pass  they  by, 

For  once  become  friends,  they  are  friends  for  aye. 

Flock  to  the  Banner  then,  one  and  all, 
Maiden  and  mother,  and  son  and  sire  : 

Rescue  a  world  from  the  deadening  thrall ! 
Deprive  of  its  victims  the  withering  fire  ! 

Save  !  'tis  a  mother  appeals  for  her  child — 

A  daughter  implores  you  in  accents  wild  ! 


RETALIATION: 

A   TALE,     BY    MRS.    HUGHES, 
ACTHOB  OF  "aunt  MAKt's  TALES,"    "ORNAMENTS  DISCOVERED,"  &C.  &C. 

CHAPTER  I. 

"  But  what  are  your  difficulties,  my  dear  sir  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Dudley,  of  his  friend  Dr.  Grey,  the  rector  of  the 
beautiful  church  lately  built  at  Islington.  "  I  confess  I 
never  anticipated  your  having  any,  as  you  always  ap- 
peared to  treat  my  son  with  particular  marks  of  par- 
tiality." 

"  I  will  state  them  frankly,"  replied  the  clergyman ; 
"  and  I  hope  to  hear  you  acknowledge  that  they  are  not 
unreasonable  ;  though  you  only  do  me  justice,  when  you 
say,  that  I  have  always  been  exceedingly  partial  to  your 
son." 

"  Then,  if  that  is  the  case,  what  objection  can  you 
have  to  giving  him  your  daughter  ?" 

"  You  shall  hear,  if  you  have  patience  to  listen,"  re 
turned   the   rector   smiling   good   temperedly.     "  But  I 
must  be  allowed  to  state  my  arguments,  in  my  own 
way  !" 

"  But  you  must  not  make  your  way  a  very  round- 
about one ;  you  ought  to  consider  the  natural  feelings 
of  a  father." 

17  193 


194  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

"  I  will  do  SO ;  and  in  the  first  place,  will  state,  that 
my  difficulties  do  not  lie  altogether  on  the  side  of  your 
son.  Alice  comes  in  for  a  share,  for  I  consider  her  much 
too  young  to  enter  into  any  engagement  of  the  kind.^' 

"  Oh  !  that  is  a  fault  she  will  keep  mending  of  every 
day  she  lives ;  and  as  her  attachment  to  my  son  is  not  a 
sudden  partiality  to  a  stranger,  but  an  affection  that  has 
been  growing  with  her  growth,  and  strengthening  with 
her  strength,  as  I  may  say,  from  infancy,  she  may  be 
allowed,  though  young,  to  have  a  pretty  good  knowledge 
of  his  character." 

"  You  are  perfectly  right,  my  dear  sir,  as  far  as  Tem- 
ple's character  is  yet  known  to  any  of  us.  But  the  same 
difficulty  that  I  have  with  respect  to  Alice,  appertains 
likewise  to  your  son.  Alice  I  look  upon  as  a  mere  child, 
for  a  girl  of  eighteen  is  very  little  better ;  and  Temple, 
though  possessed  of  as  many  amiable  and  prepossessing 
qualities,  both  mental  and  personal,  as  any  young  man  I 
ever  knew,  is  yet,  in  my  estimation,  too  young,  for  his 
habits  and  principles  to  be  considered  established." 

"  Why,  Doctor !  he  has  completed  his  twenty-first 
year,  an  age  at  which  the  law  itself  admits  a  man  to  be 
at  maturity." 

"  I  must  beg  to  be  excused  taking  the  law  as  my  guide 
in  this  instance,  my  friend,"  said  the  rector  gently; 
"and  with  regard  to  your  son,  especially,  for " 

"  For  what,  Doctor  ?"  interrupted  the  father  of  the 
young  man,  impatiently.  "Can  you  allege  a  single  thing 
against  my  son,  either  with  regard  to  religion  or  moral- 
ity ?  Did  you  ever  know  a  young  man  more  regular  in 
his  religious  duties,  or  more  strictly  moral  in  his  con- 
duct ?" 

"  Never !  as  far  as  I  have  had  an  opportunity  of  observ- 
ing him ;  but,  as  I  said  before,  I  consider  him  too  young 
yet  for  his  character  to  be  established ;  and  especially, 
(if  you  will  permit  me  to  finish  my  sentence,)  with  the 


RETALIATION.  195 

many  amusing  and  engaging  qualities  which  he  pos- 
sesses." 

"  I  suppose  you  would  be  better  satisfied  to  have  your 
daughter  marry  a  stupid  humdrum-sort  of  a  fellow  that 
nobody  ever  cared  either  to  hear  or  see  !" 

"  No  !  There  is  no  one  I  would  better  like  to  see 
Alice  the  wife  of  than  Temple  Dudley,  provided  he  had 
passed  safely  through  the  fiery  ordeal  that  qualities  such 
as  his  must  inevitably  be  exposed  to." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Doctor  ?  What  do  you  appre- 
hend ?     I  cannot  understand  your  difficulties." 

"  I  mean  this,  my  friend ;  and  I  assure  you,  I  do  not 
intend  any  disparagement  to  your  son,  when  I  say  it, 
that  Temple  is  still  very  young,  and  it  is  only  within  a 
short  time  that  he  has  been  in  actual  possession  of  one 
of  the  most  dangerous  qualifications  that  a  young  man 
can  possibly  have.     Indeed, — " 

"  Upon  my  word,  Doctor !"  again  interrupted  the  im- 
patient and  irritable  parent,  "  you  are  determined  to  try 
my  feelings  to  the  utmost.  What  in  the  name  of  good- 
ness is  there  about  Temple  Dudley  that  the  most  fastidi- 
ous could  call  dangerous  ?" 

"  An  exquisitely  sweet  voice,  and  a  highly  cultivated 
taste  for  nmsic  !  Nay,  more — his  voice,  though  so  per- 
fectly melodious,  is  far  from  having  attained  its  utmost 
power ;  and  as  it  improves,  the  dangers  by  which  he  is 
beset  will  increase  in  proportion." 

"  But  what  are  those  dangers  that  you  apprehend  so 
much  ?  Are  you  afraid  of  his  vanity  being  fed  to  an 
undue  degree  ?  If  you  are,  I  assure  you,  the  fear  is 
groundless,  for  I  believe  there  never  was  a  creature  more 
free  from  the  vice  in  this  world." 

"  I  believe  it." 

"  Then  what  is  it  that  you  fear  ?" 

"  I  fear  the  temptations  of  company,  that  beset  a  young 
man  who  possesses  so  high  a  source  of  amusement,  and 


196  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

especially  when  that  talent  is  accompanied  (as  is  very 
seldom  the  case,)  with  great  conversational  powers,  and 
an  almost  improvisitorial  genius." 

"  But  Temple  has  no  dissipated  habits  to  indulge.  His 
dispositions  and  principles  are  all  in  complete  opposition 
to  every  thing  of  the  kind." 

"  That  I  sincerely  believe  is  the  case  at  present ;  but, 
my  dear  friend,  he  has  not  yet  been  tried.  It  is  not 
many  months  since  his  voice  became  perfectly  clear,  and 
even  now,  though  it  is  regulated  with  great  taste  and 
science,  it  is  far  from  what  it  will  be  hereafter.  But  yet, 
such  as  it  is,  united  with  his  other  highly  pleasing  quali- 
ties, it  has  acquired  him  a  name,  and  caused  his  company 
already  to  be  courted  by  the  idle  and  gay,  as  a  powerful 
auxiliary  to  aid  the  festive  party,  and  I  tremble  for  the 
consequences  to  his  moral  character." 

"  But  have  you  seen  any  effect  that  has  yet  been  pro- 
duced upon  him  ?  Is  he  not  as  sober,  domestic  and 
regular  in  all  his  habits  as  he  ever  was  ?  Does  he  not 
always  show  that  his  highest  enjoyment  is  to  be  by 
your  daughter's  side,  and  join  in  all  her  pursuits,  of 
either  pleasure  or  improvement  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly  he  does,  and  I  again  assure  you,  that  I 
have  the  highest  respect  and  esteem  for  him ;  but  still  I 
know  too  well  the  weakness  of  human  nature,  and  the 
powerful  effect  of  example,  not  to  feel  the  danger  to 
which  those  must  always  be  exposed,  who  are  fool-hardy 
enough  to  put  themselves  in  the  way  of  temptation." 

"  One  would  really  imagine,  from  your  manner  of 
talking,  that  Temple  was  in  the  habit  of  frequenting 
taverns,  and  of  indulging  in  all  sorts  of  riotous  living ; 
whereas,  you  know,  that  five  evenings  out  of  the  seven 
are  almost  invariably  spent  in  this  house,  or  at  least  in 
your  daughter's  company." 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  understand  me,  my  dear  Mr. 
Dudley,"  said  the  rector,  in  a  tone  of  urbanity  and  kind- 


RETALIATION.  197 

ness,  "  or  you  would  uever  imagiue  that  I  meant  to  lay 
any  thing  to  the  charge  of  your  son's  present  character 
or  conduct.  In  fact,  had  I  had  the  slightest  suspicion  of 
any  thing  being  amiss  with  him,  in  either  of  these  re- 
spects, he  would  never  have  had  the  free  access  to  my 
house  that  he  has  always  had.  But  I  must  confess  that 
it  has,  for  some  time,  been  a  matter  of  extreme  regret  to 
me,  to  find  that  his  engagements  amongst  a  set  of  young 
men,  whose  habits  are  very  far  from  being  unexcep- 
tionable, are  becoming  more  and  more  frequent." 

"  Oh,  pooh  !  pooh  !  What  are  they,  after  all  ?  He 
may,  perhaps,  have  been  at  a  matter  of  half  a  dozen 
supper  or  dinner  parties  within  the  last  six  months ;  but 
surely,  that  is  not  sufficient  to  throw  suspicion  on  a 
young  man  who  never  yet  was  seen  even  in  a  state  of 
excitement.  No,  no,  Doctor !  believe  me,  you  are  too 
rigid,  and  carry  your  clerical  strictness  beyond  the  bounds 
of  moderation."  • 

"  I  am  very  willing  to  hope  that  my  caution  will  be 
found  to  be  unnecessary,  my  good  friend ;  but  yet  my  duty 
as  a  parent  requires  that  I  should  pause,  and  examine 
well,  before  I  entrust  the  future  welfare  of  my  child  into 
the  keeping  of  one  who  dares  to  expose  himself  to  tem- 
tations  and  examples  of  so  pernicious  and  insidious  a 
nature.  I  heard  him  enumerating  to  Alice,  last  evening, 
several  engagements  that  he  had  on  hand,  for  the  next 
few  weeks.  Such  as  an  oyster  supper,  which  young 
Winter  has  to  give  in  the  course  of  a  night  or  two,  in 
payment  of  a  wager  that  he  has  lost ;  a  great  club  dinner 
is  to  follow,  and  a  variety  of  similar  appointments,  which 
sounded  more  dangerous  to  my  ears  than  an  attack  of  a 
wild  beast,  or  a  station  at  the  cannon's  mouth  ;  for  these 
could  only  endanger  the  body,  but  those  threaten  to  de- 
moralize and  destroy  the  inward  man." 

"  But  you  had  better  wait  till  you  see  that  they  have 
had  a  bad  effect  upon  him,  before  you  denounce  them  so 

17* 


198  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

bitterly.  If  you  had  ever  seen  him  in  a  state  of  intoxi- 
cation, I  should  not  so  much  have  wondered  at  your 
alarm." 

"  Had  I  ever  seen  him  in  that  state,  I  should  have 
given  him  up,  as  far  as  my  duties  as  a  Christian  minister 
would  have  permitted ;  and  as  a  visiter  to  my  daughter, 
he  would  no  longer  have  had  admission  into  this  house ; 
but  even  though  that  were  never  to  be  the  case,  there 
are  so  many  other  vices  attending  upon  these  meetings, 
so  much,  that  has  a  deteriorating  effect  upon  the  finer 
points  of  the  moral  character,  that  nothing  could  ever 
induce  me  to  give  my  consent  to  my  daughter's  forming 
an  engagement  with  any  one  who  frequented  them." 

"  But  what  security  is  so  good  for  a  man's  abstaining 
from  all  such  amusements,  as  his  having  an  amiable  and 
affectionate  wife  ?  With  such  a  home  as  Alice  would 
make  for  any  man  who  was  so  fortunate  as  to  gain  her, 
there  would  be  little  inducement  to  him  to  go  abroad  in 
search  of  pleasure." 

"  But  the  disposition  to  go  abroad  in  the  way,  at  least, 
that  I  have  spoken  of,  must  be  conquered,  before  I  can 
possibly  commit  my  Alice's  happiness  on  so  precarious 
a  chance." 

"  Oh,  if  that  is  all,  I  am  confident  that  Temple  will 
give  it  up  the  very  moment  you  require  it.  Indeed,  so 
entirely  is  he  devoted  to  your  daughter,  that  I  am  sure 
he  would  be  willing  to  make  much  greater  sacrifices  for 
her  sake,  should  you  demand  them  of  him." 

"  But  sacrifices,  my  dear  sir,  would  not  satisfy  my 
misgivings,  on  my  child's  account.  It  is  not  a  sacrifice 
that  I  require,  but  a  voluntary  abandonment  of  the  dan- 
gerous course  he  is  now  pursuing,  from  a  conviction  of 
its  vicious  tendency.  Nothing  short  of  that  can  make 
the  reformation  secure.  Were  he  to  give  it  up  merely  for 
the  sake  of  gaining  the  object  at  which  he  is  aiming, 
the  chance  is,  that  he  would  again  be  drawn  into  the 


RETALIATION.  199 

same  snare,  as  soon  as  the  novelty  of  his  married  Ulc 
was  worn  otf ;  for  those  wlio  have  given  themselves  iij) 
to  this  mad  career,  are  always  on  the  watch  to  draw 
others  after  them  into  the  exciting  vortex." 

"  Am  I  then  to  understand,  from  what  you  say,  that 
you  have  determined  to  withhold  your  consent  to  the 
wishes  of  these  two  young  creatures,  who  have  been 
allowed  to  indulge  their  hopes  for  so  long  a  time  ?" 

"  Not  entirely ;  but  Alice  is  much  too  young  to  be 
permitted,  at  present,  to  enter  into  an  engagement  of  so 
momentous  a  nature.  I  must  insist,  therefore,  that  things 
may  be  left  as  they  at  present  stand,  till  one  year  more, 
at  least,  has  passed  over  her  head ;  and  perhaps  before 
then  Temple  may  have  seen  his  danger,  and  escaped 
from  it  before  it  is  too  late." 

"  Oh,  it  will  only  be  necessary  for  him  to  know  of 
your  alarm,  to  put  a  stop  to  all  cause  of  it  at  once." 

"  But  that,  as  I  told  you  before,  will  not  satisfy  me. 
The  thing  must  be  done  as  his  own  free  act  and  will,  or 
I  should  feel  no  confidence  in  it ;  and  I  depend  on  your 
well  known  principles  of  honor  not  to  make  my  difficul- 
ties known  to  him.  As  a  parent  you  have  a  right  to 
advise  and  recommend,  but  not  to  make  it  an  alternative 
for  the  gaining  of  my  consent.  My  having  deferred 
giving  that  consent  for  a  twelvemonth  must  be  attributed 
to  Alice's  extreme  youth  entirely." 

"  That  was  the  only  difficulty  that  he  believed  to  stand 
in  the  way  of  his  wishes ;  and  after  having  obtained 
Alice's  permission  to  apply  to  you,  he  proposed  that  I 
should  be  the  speaker — for  so  little  did  he  anticipate 
your  having  any  serious  objection,  that  he  believed  the 
arrangement  of  money  matters  was  all  that  was  neces- 
sary, and  therefore  thought  that  I  was  the  fittest  person 
to  speak  to  you,  as  best  able  to  tell  you  what  I  meant  to 
do  for  him,  and  I  came  prepared  to  show  you  that  I  was 
not  niggardly  in  my  intentions." 


200  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

"  That  is  a  subject  on  which  I  have  no  anxiety,  my 
dear  sir,"  said  the  reverend  gentleman,  smiHng.  "  I  am 
not  an  advocate  for  young  people  commencing  life  in  too 
expensive  a  manner.  Simplicity  and  economy  are  two 
virtues  which  ought  not  to  be  frightened  away  by  osten- 
tation and  splendor;  and  should  the  day  ever  arrive 
when  these  two  young  people,  who,  I  am  sure,  are  most 
sincerely  attached  to  each  other,  are  united,  I  hope  you 
will  agree  with  me  in  making  their  outfit  on  this  prin- 
ciple." As  the  rector  spoke,  he  held  out  his  hand  with 
a  look  of  cordiality  and  kindness  to  his  friend,  who,  as 
he  took  it,  made  an  evident  effort  to  reciprocate  the  sen- 
timent, but  his  countenance  told  a  tale  of  disappointment 
that  he  in  vain  endeavored  to  conceal. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Alice  Grey  !  Not  the  Alice  Grey  sung  of  yore,  but  as 
sweet  and  lovely  a  being,  as  ever  minstrel  tuned  his  harp 
to,  or  poet  poured  his  lay,  was  seated  in  what  she  had 
playfully  called  her  palace,  till  the  name  became  quite  es- 
tablished in  the  family;  though  it  had  only  a  very  few 
additional  square  feet,  to  distinguish  it  from  what  in  com- 
mon parlance  would  be  called  a  light  closet.  It  was  taste- 
fully fitted  up,  however,  for  her  excellent  father  who  was 
a  rich  man,  though  he  at  all  times  discouraged  whatever 
had  the  appearance  of  ostentatious  extravagance,  was 
always  glad  to  supply  her  with  the  means  of  gratifying  her 
taste,  and  exercising  her  ingenuity ;  and  both  had  been 
brought  into  full  play  in  the  arrangement  of  this  little  fairy 
palace  within  ;  and  so  embowered  was  it  with  roses,  honey- 
suckles, myrtles,  and  a  variety  of  other  flowering  shrubs 
without,  that  it  might  almost  have  been  taken  for  the  centre 
of  that  labyrinth,  in  which  the  fan-  Rosamond  had  once 


RETALIATION.  201 

concealed  her  charms.  Here,  as  we  have  said,  the  sweet 
AUce  was  seated,  and  might  have  been  taken  for  the  queen 
of  a  Lilliputian  kingdom,  for  she  was  surrounded  by  dolls 
of  every  size  and  description ;  from  the  chimney-sweep  to 
the  grand  turk  himself,  all  arranged  in  full  show  on  a  large 
table  before  her.  A  charitable  institution,  for  the  maintain- 
ance  of  destitute  orphans,  had  a  short  time  before  the 
period  at  which  our  story  commences,  been  burnt  down, 
and  the  poor  inmates  who  escaped  the  flames  were  thrown 
upon  the  charity  of  the  surrounding  population,  till  their 
asylum  could  be  rebuilt ;  and  in  aid  of  the  funds  necessary 
for  its  re-establishment,  a  fair,  for  the  sale  of  all  kinds  of 
fancy  articles,  was  in  preparation.  Mrs.  Grey,  as  being  an 
exceedingly  influential  woman,  whose  example  would  have 
a  great  efl'ect  in  leading  others  into  "  the  path  they  should 
go"  but  still  more  it  is  believed,  as  being  the  mother  of  a 
daughter,  whose  charms  would  give  popularity,  and  attrac- 
tion to  the  place  of  exhibition,  had  been  solicited  by  the 
committee  of  managers  to  take  a  table ;  and  as  it  was  simply 
a  charitable  institution,  unconnected  with  any  sectarian 
restrictions,  her  husband  had  warmly  seconded  the  appli- 
cation ;  and  had  overcome  even  her  maternal  scruples, 
which  long  resisted  the  idea  of  exposing  her  beautiful 
blossom,  that  she  had  matured  and  tended  with  so  much 
care,  to  the  vulgar  and  unhallowed  gaze  of  every  casual 
visitant.  But  as  she  of  course  would  always  be  by  her  side, 
and  the  rector  no  less  watchful  than  herself  of  their  treasure, 
promised  to  keep  constantly  hovering  near  them,  she  at 
length  yielded  her  reluctant  consent ;  and  for  this  fair  Alice 
had  long  been  engaged  in  preparing.  She  had  when  a 
mere  child,  been  famous  for  her  taste  in  dressing  dolls,  and 
that  period  was  not  so  far  past,  as  for  her  to  have  lost  any 
of  the  art ;  and  as  her  father's  purse  was  always  ready  to 
open  at  every  demand  she  made  upon  it  for  materials,  it 
may  well  be  imagined,  that  there  was  a  gorgeous  display 
of  beauty  and  elegance  arranged  before  her.     Thus   Alice 


202  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

sat  enthroned  in  her  fairy  realm,  arranging  the  folds  of  a 
beautiful  lace  polka,  and  at  the  same  time,  practising  her 
part  of  a  duett,  that  she  expected  to  sing  that  evening  with 
Dudley,  (for  Alice  though  in  love,  felt  so  assured  of  the 
worth  of  the  object  and  the  approbation  of  all  connected, 
that  her  love  had  nothing  of  sadness  in  it)  when  the  door 
opened,  not  as  by  the  touch  of  a  magic  wand,  but  by  her 
father's  hand  being  placed  on  the  lock ;  and  that  same 
parent  immediately  entered.  The  roses  that  peeped  in  at 
the  window,  as  if  anxious  to  viev/  their  kindred  blossom, 
might  have  envied  the  rich  hue  that  tinged  AUce's  cheeks, 
as  her  eyes  encountered  those  of  her  father ;  and  had 
Temple  been  within  hearing  of  the  sounds  that  at  the  same 
moment  were  emitted  from  her  lips,  though  she  struggled 
to  sing  in  her  usually  unconcerned  manner,  he  would  have 
thought  there  was  but  a  poor  prospect  of  their  having  har- 
mony in  their  music,  whatever  there  might  be  in  their 
hearts,  when  they  mingled  their  voices  in  the  duett. 

"  I  am  glad  to  find  you  alone  Alice,"  said  the  rector,  as  he 
placed  a  chair  by  his  daughter's  side.  Alice  stopped  her 
singing,  but  kept  pulling  and  twitching  the  poor  polka  with 
as  little  mercy  as  fashionable  dress  makers  often  exercise, 
when  fitting  larger  babies,  who  for  the  sake  of  dress  exhibit 
a  degree  of  patient  endurance  unknown  to  them,  at  any 
other  time.  "  Put  that  doll  aside  for  a  while,  my  dear," 
said  the  parent,  "for  at  present  I  want  your  undivided 
attention." 

Alice  did  as  she  was  desired,  and  began  to  examine  her 
nails  with  intense  interest.  "  Do  you  know  that  I  have 
had  a  visiter  already  this  morning  ?"  asked  the  doctor, 
looking  at  his  daughter  with  a  smile.  Alice  was  strongly 
tempted  to  say  "  no  !"  but  she  was  above  the  meanness  of 
a  falsehood,  and  therefore  replied,  "  Yes  !  sir  !" 

"  And  I  suppose  you  are  aware  of  the  business  that  he 
came  upon?"  continued  the  father.  Alice  was  silent  and 
still  continued  to  examine  her  nails  very  minutely  ;  but  on 


RETALIATION.  203 

observing  as  she  held  up  her  beautiful  little  hands  for  that 
purpose,  that  they  might  actually  be  seen  to  tremble,  her 
kind  parent  took  pity  on  her  confusion,  and  speaking  in  a 
more  serious  tone,  he  said,  "  I  hope  my  dear  child  you  will 
not  think  me  unkind  when  you  hear  that  I  have  refused  to 
sanction  any  engagement  between  you  and  Temple  Dudley 
for  the  present ;  both  because  you  are  too  young  yet,  to 
venture  upon  any  thing  so  momentous,  and  because 
Temple's  character  is  yet  to  be  tried."  Alice  raised  her 
eyes  for  the  first  time  to  her  father's  face,  and  fixed  their 
large  full  expressive  orbs  on  it,  with  a  look  that  said  as 
plainly  as  any  words  could  have  spoken  it :  "  Can  it  be 
possible  that  you  have  a  doubt  of  Temple  Dudley's  charac- 
ter ?"  The  rector  saw  and  understood  all  that  her  looks 
expressed ;  and  immediately  proceeded  to  state  the  argu- 
ments which  we  have  already  heard  him  detail,  that  led 
him  to  consider  it  necessary  to  give  the  young  man  a  longer 
trial,  before  he  ventured  to  place  so  sacred  a  trust  in  his 
hands.  "Temple,"  he  continued  in  a  gentle,  affectionate 
voice  ;  "  has  had  but  a  short  trial  of  the  wonderful  powers 
he  possesses,  for  he  is  yet  a  very  young  man,  and  his  voice 
was  later  in  developing  itself  than  common.  Its  extra- 
ordinary sweetness  and  power,  now  however,  and  the 
science  with  which  he  manages  it,  excite  so  much  admira- 
tion, and  make  him  so  desirable  a  guest  at  the  festive 
board,  that  it  will  require  more  than  common  prudence  and 
resolution  to  withstand  the  temptations  by  which  he  is  sure 
to  be  surrounded.  We  must,  therefore,  wait  a  while  my 
Alice,  and  see  how  he  stands  the  test ;  for  I  could  never 
forgive  myself,  were  I  to  allow  you  to  expose  yourself  to 
the  misery  of  finding  that  you  were  a  neglected  wife,  while 
he  was  contributing  to  the  bacchanalian  hilarity  of  those 
who  valued  him,  only  in  proportion  as  he  contributed  to 
their  amusement.  But  if  my  child,  by  the  time  that  you 
have  completed  your  nineteenth  year,  I  find  him  still 
uncontaminated  by  the  voice  of  popularity,  and  disposed 


204  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

rather  to  withdraw  from,  than  seek  the  dangers  to  which 
he  has  lately  so  frequently  exposed  himself,  I  shall  no  longer 
make  any  objection  to  your  union ;  for  it  is  not  what  Temple 
Dudley  now  is,  but  what  I  dread  his  becoming,  that  makes 
me  hesitate." 

Alice  looked  at  her  father  with  an  expression  of  love  and 
gratitude,  for  she  saw  in  the  stipulation  that  he  had  made 
nothing  but  the  sweet  assurance  that  she  would  ultimately 
be  the  wife  of  the  man  she  loved ;  and  as  to  the  year  of 
probation,  she  felt  it  was  both  prudent  and  right  for  them 
both ;  for  though  she  had  no  doubt  of  her  lover's  acquitting 
himself  in  every  thing  as  she  could  wish,  she  had  too  much 
good  sense,  not  to  see  the  propriety  of  her  father's  deter- 
mination. After  a  few  minutes  pause  the  rector  continued 
in  a  more  solemn  tone.  "  Alice  you  have  ever  been  an 
obedient  and  dutiful  child,  and  are  convinced  I  am  sure  that 
my  object  in  every  thing  I  do,  is  to  secure  your  happiness, 
as  far  as  lies  in  my  power.  You  will  not  therefore  I  hope, 
refuse  me  one  promise,  which  is,  that  if  he  should  once 
so  far  forget  himself  as  to  give  way  to  inebriety,  you  will 
promptly  withdraw  from  him  nor  seek  again  to  prevail  upon 
me  to  sanction  the  connection.  Can  you  venture  to  pro- 
mise this  Alice?"  continued  the  affectionate  parent,  as  he 
looked  with  tender  solicitude  in  his  daughter's  face. 

"  Yes !  my  dearest  father  on  my  bended  knees,  I  make 
you  the  promise,"  and  as  Alice  spoke  she  sank  on  her 
knees,  and  raised  her  beautiful  eyes  to  heaven  •,  "  and  I  do 
it  the  more  readily,  because  the  request  is  sanctioned  by 
my  own  judgment,  and  because  I  feel  confident  that  the 
fulfilment  will  never  be  required  of  me."  The  rector  raised 
the  lovely  being  whose  happiness  was  so  infinitely  dear  to 
him,  and  pressed  her  fondly  to  his  breast.  "  You  were 
ever  good  Alice,"  said  he,  "and  I  trust  there  is  as  much 
happiness  in  store  for  you,  as  your  father  could  reasonably 
desire.  Let  Temple  only  continue  to  be  what  he  now  is, 
and  my  highest  wishes  for  you  will  be  gratified." 


RETALIATION.  205 

"  Oh !  he  will  continue  so,  my  father,"  said  Alice, 
with  enthusiasm,  for  the  timidity  that  she  had  hitherto 
felt  was  overcome  by  her  anxiety  to  vindicate  the  charac- 
ter of  her  lover.  "  He  has  an  innate  love  and  reverence 
for  virtue,  that  will  always  protect  him  from  offending 
against  its  laws.  I  will  pledge  myself  for  his  invinci- 
bility against  all  the  insidious  attacks  that  may  be  made 
upon  him." 

"  I  should  grieve  to  see  your  confidence  shaken,  though 
I  would  advise  you  to  act  as  though  you  did  not  feel  it, 
and  use  your  influence,  which  is  very  great,  in  drawing 
him  from  the  paths  of  temptation.  The  best  way  of 
escaping  the  danger  will  be  always  to  act  as  though  you 
were  afraid  of  it ;  and  though  I  do  not  wish  that  he 
should  know  the  promise  I  have  exacted,  there  is  a  quiet 
influence  that  a  female  always  has  it  in  her  power  to 
exert,  which,  though  unseen,  will,  like  the  effect  of  the 
sun  and  dew  on  the  germ  that  still  lies  hidden  under 
ground,  bring  forth  fruit  to  ripen  in  eternity."  As  the 
kind  parent  said  this,  he  pressed  the  coral  lips  of  his 
lovely  daughter,  and  left  her  to  pursue  her  labors  and 
her  reflections  at,  her  will. 

Nor  was  it  long  before  Alice's  voice  was  again  heard, 
singing,  "  I  will  meet  thee  by  moonlight  alone,"  with 
much  more  precision  than  when  her  father  had  inter- 
rupted her  strains.  As  we  have  before  said,  Alice's 
love  was  not  of  the  sighing  kind,  for  she  had  the  most 
unbounded  confidence  in  the  being  on  whom  she  had 
bestowed  it,  and  a  bright  and  sunny  path  seemed  to  be 
stretched  out  before  her.  She  had  often  heard  it  said, 
that  "  the  course  of  true  lovie  never  did  run  smooth," 
but  she  felt  that  her's  would  be  an  exception,  for  she 
saw  nothing  to  oppose  their  happiness  but  the  snnple 
restriction  of  one  year's  probation,  and  that  she  was  very 
sure  would  be  passed  through  with  credit  and  honour;  and 
her  judgment  told  her  that,  as  far  as  she  was  herself 

18 


206  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

concerned,  the  arrangement  was  judicious  and  proper; 
for  while  her  love  remained  unchanged,  her  mind  would 
be  more  matured,  and  she  would  have  become  more 
worthy  of  him  who  possessed  her  whole  heart. 

Alice's  peculiar  characteristic  was  affection, — pure, 
steadfast,  unwavering  affection, — warm  and  glowing  as 
a  summer's  sun ;  but  pure  and  spotless  as  her  own  virgin 
innocence.  A  feeling  of  kindness  pervaded  her  soul 
towards  every  thing  around  her,  whether  animate  or  in- 
animate. She  loved  the  whole  world,  because  the  whole 
world,  as  far  as  she  had  known  it,  had  been  kind  and 
good  to  her ;  but  her  God,  her  parents,  and  her  lover, 
were  entwined  with  every  cord  and  fibre  of  her  heart. 
For  them,  and  in  them,  she  seemed  to  live,  and  the  con- 
viction that  her  love  was  returned  with  equal,  if  not  with 
tenfold  warmth,  threw  such  a  charm  over  her  existence, 
that  the  world  appeared  to  her  a  rich  and  beautiful  gar- 
den, in  which  she  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  cull  the  fair- 
est and  most  fragrant  flowers.  And  what  could  that 
garden  produce  more  delightful  to  a  young,  sensitive  and 
generous  heart,  than  the  pleasure  she  was  then  enjoying, 
of  assisting  in  protecting  the  innocent  and  providing  for 
the  destitute — and  these,  whenever  they  met  her  view, 
her  father's  liberal  bounty  was  always  ready  to  provide 
her  with  the  means  of  relieving. 

When  Dudley  appeared  in  the  evening  she  found  him 
a  little  disposed  to  be  gloomy  and  low-spirited,  at  her 
father's  decision,  but  she  sang,  talked  and  laughed  with 
so  much  sweetness,  and  rallied  him  with  so  much  gen- 
tleness and  grace,  on  his  want  of  confidence  in  either 
himself  or  her,  that  she  soon  chased  the  clouds  from  his 
brow,  and  he  at  length  left  her  with  the  acknowledgment, 
that,  enjoying  as  they  did  a  daily  intercourse  with  each 
other,  he  had  not  much  right  to  complain.  Delighted  to 
see  her  lover  again  cheerful  and  happy,  Alice  retired  to 
her  chamber  with  a  heart  overflowing  with  gratitude  for 


RETALIATION.  207 

the  mercies  by  which  she  was  surrounded.  Her  head 
had  scarcely  touched  her  pillow  when  she  was  roused 
by  the  sound  of  a  guitar,  called  forth  by  a  hand  which 
could  not  be  mistaken ;  and  after  listening  awhile,  a 
voice  no  less  rich  and  sweet,  that  never  failed  to  bring 
gladness  to  her  heart,  fell  upon  her  ear,  while  she  distin- 
guished the  following  words : 

"Sleep!  dearest,  sleep! 

'Mid  myrtles  and  roses — 
Sleep  !  dearest,  sleep  ! 

Where  beauty  reposes ! 

"  Sleep !  dearest,  sleep ! 

For  naught  shall  distress  thee ! 
Sleep  !  dearest,  sleep  ! 

For  angels  will  bless  thee ! 

"Sleep  !  dearest,  sleep  ! 

And  sweet  be  thy  slumbers ! 
Sleep !  dearest,  sleep  ! 

And  dream  of  my  numbers !" 

"I  will  try  to  sleep  and  dream  that  I  hear  them 
again,"  said  Alice,  as  the  simple  words,  sung  to  a  strain 
of  exquisite  sweetness,  died  away  on  her  ear. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  Pole,  have  you  been  at  the  Orphans'  Fair  ?"  asked  a 
gay  and  fashionable-looking  young  man,  of  a  friend 
whom  he  met  on  the  Islington  road. 

"  No,  I  never  go  to  such  places.  When  I  part  with 
my  money,  I  do  it  with  my  own  free  will.  I  do  not  like 
to  have  it  screwed  out  of  my  pocket." 

"  I  would  advise  you  to  go,  however,"  returned  Sir 
Charles  Somerville,  the  first  speaker,  "  for  you  will  see  a 


208  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

creature  there  worth  all  the  money  you  have  in  your 
pocket,  and  a, great  deal  more  into  the  bargain — simply 
tolook  at  her." 

"  Who  is  she  ? " 

"  Alice  Grey. 'J 

"  That's  Dudley's  lady  love.     Is  it  not  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  the  very  personification  of  his  own  sweet 
music.  So  much  so,  that  in  doing  homage  to  her,  I  think 
he  must  feel  as  though  he  were  worshipping  his  own 
inward  self." 

"  I  have  often  heard  that  she  was  very  pretty,"  said 
Pole. 

"  Pretty  !  that  is  not  at  all  the  word  to  apply  to  Alice 
Grey,"  returned  the  other.  "  It  is  not  merely  that  she 
has  bright  eyes,  rosy  cheeks,  coral  lips,  and  white  teeth, 
though  I  believe  she  has  all  of  these — at  least,  I  did  not 
notice  the  want  of  them ;  but  there  is  a  soul-breathing 
harmony  about  her,  a  sprightliness  mingled  with  sensi- 
bility, a ,  I  cannot  tell  what  to  call  it ;  in  fact,  it  is 

just  what  I  said  before — it  is  Dudley's  music  personi- 
fied." 

"  I  must  certainly  go  and  see  this  wonder,  whatever  it 
may  cost  me.  Whereabout  in  the  hall  is  she  to  be 
found  ? " 

"  You  can  have  no  difiiculty  in  finding  her ;  only  go 
where  you  see  the  greatest  number  of  gentlemen,  and 
the  fewest  ladies." 

"  You  may  as  well  turn  back  and  go  with  me." 

"  Not  I,  indeed !  I  have  escaped  now  with  only  a 
scratch,  but  I  should  not  like  to  risk  the  consequences  of 
another  look." 

"  Why,  she  is  not  engaged  to  Dudley.  I  was  told,  the 
other  day,  on  very  good  authority,  that  the  rector  has 
refused  his  consent." 

"  That  may  be,  but  her  affections  are  engaged,  if  ever 
woman's  eye  told  a  true  tale  in  this  world.     Not  that 


RETALIATION.  209 

there  is  any  fulsome  love  languishing  about  her,  but  a 
quiet,  calm,  gentle  expression  of  love  and  confidence, 
that  is  never  obtrusive,  yet  cannot  be  misunderstood." 

"  Well,  all  that  may  be,  but  she  is  so  young  that  it  is 
not  to  be  supposed  she  could  not  be  won  by  one  who 
was  more  favored  by  the  rector." 

"  I  would  not  advise  you  to  make  the  attempt,"  said 
Sir  Charles,  and  putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  he  rode  off", 
while  his  friend  pursued  his  course  to  the  hall  in  which 
the  Fair  was  held.  The  directions  that  had  been  given 
him  were  found  to  be  amply  sufficient  to  guide  Mr.  Pole 
to  the  spot  where  Alice  presided,  and  on  seeing  her  he 
could  not  but  acknowledge  to  himself,  that,  warm  as  the 
encomiums  of  his  friend  had  been,  the  object  of  them 
was  superior  to  the  expectations  that  had  been  raised. 
At  the  moment  of  his  arrival  Alice  was  showing  off  a 
cap,  that  a  coarse-featured,  middle-aged  lady  seemed  to 
think  of  buying,  and  saying  she  would  like  to  see  it  on 
before  she  made  the  purchase.  Alice,  with  great  simpli- 
city, placed  it  on  her  own  head. 

"  It  looks  very  well  now,"  returned  the  lady,  "  but  I 
am  afraid  I  may  be  deceived  with  it,  as  I  once  was  with 
a  bonnet." 

"  How  was  that  ? "  asked  Alice,  still  keeping  the  cap  on. 

"  I  once  saw  a  very  beautiful  young  lady,"  said  the 
cap  fancier,  "  with  a  bonnet  on,  that  I  liked  very  much. 
I  went  off  immediately  and  ordered  one  like  it.  It  was 
sent  home,  made  exactly  according  to  order,  but  when  I 
put  it  on  it  did  not  seem  like  the  same  thing,  and  then  I 
recollected  that  /  had  it  on,  and  not  Peggy  Humble." 
A  soft  tinge  suffused  Alice's  cheek  at  this  well-applied 
compliment,  and  the  cap  was  taken  off  without  any  fur- 
ther remark.  "  I  will  buy  it,  for  the  sake  of  the  wearer," 
said  the  lady,  putting  the  money  into  Alice's  hand  as  she 
spoke,  with  a  look  of  great  admiration.  Our  heroine 
thanked  her  in  so  courteous  and  graceful,  and  yet  so  per- 

18* 


210  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

fectly  unaffected  a  manner,  that  the  lady,  as  if  unwilhng 
to  lose  sight  of  her,  begged  her  to  show  some  more 
things  that  she  thought  would  suit  her,  that  she  might 
extend  her  purchases.  While  Alice  was  thus  engaged, 
Dudley  entered  the  hall,  and  coming  forward  joined 
Pole,  who  had  been  standing  near  Alice  and  watching 
her  from  the  moment  of  his  arrival.  Till  Temple  joined 
him,  Pole's  presence  had  been  unnoticed  by  Alice,  but 
immediately  her  attention  was  directed  towards  him, 
and  she  heard  him  say, 

"You  will  be  at  Winter's  supper  to-night?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  promised  to  be  there,"  was  the  reply. 

Alice  involuntarily  turned  her  head  and  looked  at  her 
lover,  whose  countenance  betokened  surprise  at  the  ex- 
pression of  hers. 

"  Well,  take  care  of  yourself,  for  I  shall  not  be  there 
to  look  after  you,"  said  Pole,  laughing. 

Alice's  cheek  first  flushed  and  then  turned  pale,  which 
Dudley  seeing,  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  petulance, 

"  I  have  always,  hitherto,  been  able  to  take  care  of 
myself!" 

"  But,  you  know,  I  have  always,  hitherto,  been  with 
you,  to  bring  you  home  with  me  at  a  good  sober  hour," 
returned  Pole,  still  laughing  as  he  spoke  ;  but  to  Alice's 
ear  the  laugh  seemed  to  have  the  discordant  sound  of  a 
fiend  exulting  over  a  victim. 

"  You  will  find  that  I  shall  be  equally  safe  without 
your  protecting  care,"  said  Temple,  evidently  much  cha- 
grined, for  he  saw  the  uneasiness  that  was  depicted  in 
Alice's  face. 

"  Ah !  you  are  one  of  the  immaculate  ones,  who  fancy 
you  can  never  trip,  but  perhaps  the  danger  is  not  the  less 
on  that  account ;  so  I  would  advise  you  to  take  care." 

"  The  advice  is  good,  and  shall  be  attended  to,"  replied 
Dudley,  in  a  tone  of  mortification ;  for  though  at  any 
other  time  what  Pole  had  said  would  have  passed  as  a 


RETALIATION.  211 

mere  joke,  he  saw  that  it  made  Alice  mieasy,  and  there- 
fore it  vexed  him.  At  this  moment,  and  before  Pole  had 
time  to  speak  again,  a  lady,  from  an  opposite  table,  came 
forward,  and  holding  out  a  guitar  to  Temple,  she  said, 

"  Mr.  Dudley,  may  I  beg  the  favour  of  you  to  try  this 
instrument  ?  A  gentleman  wishes  to  purchase  it,  as  a 
present  for  a  friend,  but  is  anxious  first  to  hear  its  tone." 

The  young  man  bowed,  and  taking  the  guitar  and 
throwing  his  fingers  over  the  strings,  brought  forth  such 
tones  as  he  only  could.  No  sooner  were  the  sounds 
heard  than  listeners  crowded  round  the  performer  from 
all  parts  of  the  room,  and  numberless  requests  were  made 
that  he  would  accompany  them  with  his  voice.  For 
some  time  he  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  petitions,  but  hap- 
pening to  cast  his  eye  upon  Alice,  and  seeing  an  expres- 
sion of  uneasiness  still  on  her  beloved  countenance,  a 
sudden  thought  seemed  to  strike  him,  and  after  preluding 
a  few  notes,  his  full,  rich  voice  burst  out,  and  with  an 
indescribable  expression  of  persuasive  tenderness,  he  sung 
the  following  extempore  stanzas : 

"  Gay  and  cheerful  be  thy  bosom, 

Drive  all  troubles  from  thy  breast, 
For  iu  so  bright,  so  pure  a  blossom, 

No  corroding  worm  must  rest. 

"  Think  not  that  the  heart  that  loves  thee 

E'er  could  plant  a  thorn  in  thine ! 
Oh,  then,  loved  one !  it  behoves  thee 

To  trust  the  faith  and  truth  of  mine. 

"  For  like  the  buds  that  close  and  languish, 
When  Sol  withdraws  his  cheering  ray, 

I  pine  in  sad  and  bitter  anguish 
When  thou  appear'st  less  bright  and  gay. 

"  Then  light  and  cheerful  be  thy  bosom — • 

Drive  all  troubles  from  thy  breast — 
For  in  so  bright  and  pure  a  blossom 

No  corroding  worm  must  rest." 


212  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

Reiterated  bursts  of  applause  and  admiration  resounded 
through  the  hall,  long  after  the  music  had  ceased,  and 
then  followed  repeated  requests  for  more ;  but  Dudley 
saw,  by  the  countenance  of  her  he  loved,  that  she  had 
understood  and  felt  his  attempt  to  re-assure  her,  and  that 
object  being  accomplished,  he  turned  with  indifference 
from  the  voice  of  praise,  gave  back  the  guitar  to  the 
lady,  and  then  turned  to  Pole,  with  a  determination  that 
he  would  make  him  pay  the  penalty  of  the  uneasiness  he 
had  caused,  by  drawing  him  in  to  making  some  consider- 
able purchases.  This  he  did,  till  he  had  satisfied  himself 
that  Pole's  purse  was  considerably  lighter,  and  Alice's 
proportionably  heavier,  which  gratified  him  the  more,  as 
he  knew  that  money  was  a  thing  that  the  gentleman 
always  parted  with  reluctantly. 

"  Are  you  really  going  to  that  supper  to-night  ?"  asked 
Alice,  as  Dudley  stood  near  her,  when  there  were  a  few 
moments  cessation  from  business. 

"  I  must  go.  It  is  a  promise  of  two  or  three  weeks 
standing." 

"  It  is  very  unpleasant  to  me  to  think  of  your  associat- 
ing with  such  company,"  said  Alice,  and  as  she  spoke  a 
watery  gleam  shot  from  her  beautiful  eyes. 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid,  Alice  ;  such  company  will 
never  do  me  any  harm.  All  that  Pole  said  was  a  mere 
joke." 

"  I  cannot  bear  the  idea  of  your  being  the  subject  of 
such  coarse  jokes.  As  well  might  you  attack  a  woman 
on  the  want  of  purity  in  her  manners,  and  then  say  it 
was  only  a  jest.  Indeed,  it  is  degrading  yourself  to  asso- 
ciate with  such  men." 

"  Well,  only  let  me  fulfill  one  or-  two  engagements  that 
I  have  standing,  and  I  will  decline  all  invitations  of  the 
kind.  For  those  who  would  not  be  scorched,  must  keep 
away  from  the  fire.  So,  cheer  up,  dear  Alice,  and  let 
me  not  see  another  anxious  look.     You  shall  find  that  I 


KETALIATION.  213 

have  returned  from  the  supper  as  well  as  I  am  at  pre- 
sent." 

"  I  must  take  your  word  for  it  in  the  morning,"  said 
Alice,  smiling  sweetly  on  her  lover ;  "  for  I  hope  to  be 
asleep  long  before  you  leave  your  party.  I  am  already 
pretty  nearly  worn  out."  Here  an  influx  of  purchasers 
claimed  Alice's  attention,  and  the  lovers  parted. 

In  the  midst,  however,  of  all  her  occupations,  for 
crowds  of  company  kept  continually  flocking  round  her 
table,  our  heroine's  mind  frequently  recurred  to  Pole's 
unpleasant  speeches,  though  it  was  more  the  pain  of 
offended  delicacy  than  of  shaken  confidence,  that  dis- 
turbed her.  It  was  not  love  alone  that  she  felt  for  Dud- 
ley— it  was  affection,  mingled  with  esteem,  admiration, 
and  respect ;  and  she  could  not  bear  that  any  grosser 
mind  should  put  him  so  much  on  a  level  with  itself  as  to 
attach  vices  of  so  mean  and  disgusting  a  nature  to  him. 
Worn  out  with  fatigue,  however,  to  which  she  was  little 
accustomed,  she  extended  herself  on  her  couch,  when  the 
business  of  the  day  was  over,  and  was  soon  locked  in 
the  arms  of  sleep.  We  will  not  pretend  to  say  how  long 
she  had  slept,  but  she  was  at  length  aroused  by  the  sound 
of  Dudley's  well-known  guitar ;  and  when  the  minstrel 
had  got  directly  under  her  window,  his  voice  mingled 
with  the  strain,  and  Alice  distinguished  words  that  she 
knew  to  be  particularly  addressed  to  herself. 

"  Ah  !  why  should'st  thou  ever 

Be  gloomy  and  sad  ■? 

Will  faith  and  hope  never 

Teach  thee  to  be  glad  1 

Why — why  this  caressing 

Of  doubts  so  distressing; 

This  seeking  of  sorrow,  ^ 

Not  due  till  to-morrow  1 
A  lover  more  faithful  no  maiden  e'er  had! 


214  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

"  Ah !  cheer  up,  my  lov'd  one, 

Nor  longer  pursue 
Those  doubts  of  thy  prov'd  one, 

Who  still  will  be  true. 
No  more  this  caressing 
Of  doubts  so  distressing — 
This  courting  of  sorrow, 
Not  due  till  to-morrow ! 
But  hope,  cheering  hope,  keep  forever  in  view." 

Then  changing  the  strain  to  a  different  measure,  he 
continued — 

"  Oh !  let  not  fear,  sweet  maid,  distress  thee  ! 

Drive  the  dread  phantom  from  thy  breast, 
For,  trust  me.  Heaven  designs  to  bless  thee. 

And  love  alone  can  make  thee  blest. 

«  Then  let  sweet  hope,  thy  bosom  cheering, 

Chase  every  painful  doubt  away, 
While  thy  soft  smiles,  through  tears  appearing, 

Seem  brighter  through  the  glittering  ray. 

"Thus  buds,  by  moisture  all  pervaded. 
When  shines  again  the  bright'ning  beam, 

Before  the  rainbow's  tints  have  faded. 
Are  glist'ning  in  the  watery  beam." 

"  That  is  neither  the  language  nor  the  voice  of  a  bac- 
chanalian," said  Alice,  and  sunk  again  into  a  sweet 
sleep. 


RETALIATION.  215 


CHAPTER  IV. 

The  "  Fair"  was  over,  the  receipts  satisfactory,  and  Alice 
so  far  from  being  gratified  with  the  notice  and  admiration 
which  she  had  excited,  would  have  been  very  well  pleased 
to  withdraw  to  the  quiet  retirement  to  which  she  had  hith- 
erto been  accustomed;  but  her  mother  thinking  it  now 
time  that  she  should  mix  more  generally  with  the  world, 
had  determined  to  give  a  ball  as  an  introduction  for  her 
daughter  into  fashionable  society.  Though  this  fete  had 
neither  been  solicited,  or  even  thought  of  by  Alice,  before 
her  mother  announced  her  intention,  it  was  far  from  dis- 
agreeable when  suggested  to  her,  for  what  girl  of  eighteen 
is  stoic  enough  not  to  enjoy  the  thoughts  of  a  ball  ?  The 
business,  too  of  preparation  was  an  important  one,  and  Alice 
had  no  small  degree  of  pleasure  in  exercising  her  taste  in 
the  various  arrangements ;  but  especially  in  the  decorations 
of  the  ball  room,  in  which  she  was  assisted  by  Eugenia 
Grafton,  one  of  her  most  intimate  friends ;  and  as  they 
laughed,  talked,  danced  and  joked,  the  two  light  hearted 
girls  often  declared,  that  if  they  had  but  as  much  pleasure 
at  the  ball,  as  they  had  in  preparing  for  it,  they  would 
consider  themselves  fully  rewarded  for  all  their  trouble. 
"  I  intend  to  enjoy  myself  in  an  especial  degree,"  said 
Eugenia,  "  for  I  understand  my  quandom  beau  Pole  called 
just  in  time  to  have  an  invitation ;  and  I  shall  endeavour  to 
show  him  that  my  heart  is  not  quite  broken." 

"  They  must  be  determined  to  be  miserable  who  would 
mourn  for  the  loss  of  him,"  said  Alice,  to  whom  that  gen- 
tleman was  particularly  disagreeable. 

"  Ah !  Alice  you  who  are  the  only  daughter  of  a  rich 
father,  are  not  calculated  to  judge  of  the  charms  of  such  a 


216  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

lover  as  Pole !"  returned  Eugenia  with  a  half  repressed 
sigh. 

"  But  I  can  judge,"  returned  her  companion,  "  that  he  is 
at  the  very  least,  far  on  to  fifty  years  of  age,  notwith- 
standing all  the  pains  he  takes  to  conceal  the  disagreeable 
truth :  that  he  loves  himself  too  much  ever  to  care  for  any 
one  else,  and  that  next  to  the  worship  that  he  bestows  on 
himself,  is  his  devotion  to  the  god  Plutus." 

"  But  then  Alice  you  must  consider  all  that  the  reverse 
of  the  picture  presents.  There  is  his  immense  wealth,  his 
splendid  establishment,  and  his  great  family.  And  besides, 
though  there  is  no  doubt  of  his  loving  himself  better  than 
all  the  rest  of  the  world  put  together,  that  very  circum- 
stance will  secure  his  being  liberal  to  his  wife;  for  he 
would  not  for  the  world,  that  any  thing  he  called  his  own, 
should  be  short  of  the  utmost  pinnacle  of  elegance  and 
fashion." 

"  And  what  would  all  that  do  towards  making  a  woman 
happy,"  asked  Alice  in  the  simplicity  of  her  heart.  "  If 
you  could  neither  love  your  husband,  nor  believe  that  he 
loved  you,  all  the  gold  and  fashion  and  elegance  by 
which  you  were  surrounded,  would  only  be  so  many  heavy 
chains,  which  goaded  whilst  they  bound  you,  and  he  who 
bestowed  them  would  require  feudal  homage,  even  though 
they  were  bestowed  only  for  the  gratification  of  his  own 
pride." 

"  Ah  !  Alice  !  Alice  !"  said  Eugenia,  "  wait  till  like  me 
you  have  passed  two  winters  in  the  world  of  fashion,  and 
you  will  begin  to  find  out  that  hearts  and  love,  and  reci- 
procity of  affection,  and  all  such  fine  things,  have  less  to  do 
with  the  affairs  of  life  than  you  at  present  imagine.  A 
good  settlement  is  one  of  the  most  important  objects  of  a 
young  woman's  life ;  and  I  believed  myself  sure  of  one  till 
Pole  met  with  a  lady  whom  he  thought  handsomer  and 
more  fashionable  than  myself" 

"  The  truth  is  Eugenia  I  do  not  believe  that  he  has  any 


RETALIATION.  217 

idea  of  marrying  at  all ;  but  bestows  his  attentions  first  on 
one,  and  then  on  another,  simply  to  gratify  his  pride,  by 
seeing  how  many  of  the  young  and  beautiful  arc  willing  to 
sell  themselves  for  a  share  of  his  wealth.  I  only  wish  they 
could  all  see  him  with  my  eyes,  and  he  would  soon  hav^e 
his  vanity  humbled." 

"  He  shall  be  mortified  at  least,  if  not  humbled,  some 
day  or  other ;  or  my  name  is  not  Eugenia  Grafton.  And 
do  you  know  Alice  that  like  other  vain  people,  who  pride 
themselves  upon  the  splendour  and  show  with  which  they 
think  they  are  dazzling  the  world,  he  is  remarkably  suscep- 
tible of  ridicule.  I  have  not  had  an  opportunity  since  he 
left  off  visiting  me,  to  give  him  a  taste  of  it,  but  I  hope  I 
shall  not  die  before  I  have  the  chance." 

"  It  is  a  great  pity,  Eugenia,  that  you  should  allow  him 
to  share  so  large  a  portion  of  your  attention.  You  too, 
who  have  always  so  many  admirers  around  you,  and  one 
noble  and  devoted  heart  in  particular  at  your  command." 

"  You  mean  Dr.  Woodford ;  yes  poor  fellow  he  has  atfec- 
tion  enough  I  believe.  It  is  a  pity  but  he  had  a  little  of 
Pole's  superfluous  wealth  into  the  bargain." 

"  But  he  is  getting  rapidly  into  practice  I  understand,  as 
might  be  expected  from  his  talents.  And  a  heart  such  as 
his  is  worth  all  Pole's  money." 

"But  unfortunately  my  dear  Alice  I  have  no  taste  for 
making  puddings,  and  darning  stockings,  and  all  the  other 
elegancies  of  domestic  life,  that  a  woman  must  practice, 
who  marries  a  man  that  has  his  fortune  to  make." 

"  Then  there  is  Dorrisville  he  is  rich  enough  surely  !" 

"  Yes  !  he  has  money,  but  unfortunately  he  has  not  any 
thing  else.  However  if  he  can  screw  his  courage  to  the 
sticking  place,  he  may  do  instead  of  a  better." 

"  But  if  you  think  so  you  surely  would  not  treat  Wood- 
ford so  ungenerously,  as  to  allow  him  to  keep  hanging  on 
in  hopes,  whilst  you  have  it  in  contemplation  to  accept 
another." 

19 


218  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

"  Oh !  as  for  that  he  must  take  his  chance,  as  others 
have  done  before  him ;  and  certainly  I  can  neither  accept 
nor  refuse,  till  I  know  my  own  mind  upon  the  subject ;  and 
that  I  cannot  do  at  present.  I  must  wait  to  see  what  is  to 
be  had,  before  I  can  determine  what  I  will  have." 

"Ah  Eugenia!"  said  Alice  with  a  look  of  serious 
remonstrance,  "  I  am  afraid  you  will  suffer  some  day,  for 
making  your  heart  such  a  mere  piece  of  merchandise." 

"  Oh !  It  is  very  easy  for  you  to  talk  with  contempt  of 
making  a  merchandise  of  hearts.  You  who  have  already 
secured  the  heart  of  one,  who  possesses  all,  and  a  great 
deal  more  than  all  that  my  two  lovers  can  boast  of  between 
them.  Give  me  Temple  Dudley,  and  I  will  promise  never 
to  regret  the  loss  of  Pole  again." 

"  We  have  talked  so  much  about  these  beaux,"  said 
Alice,  while  a  heightened  colour  suffused  her  cheek,  "  that 
our  work  has  been  quite  at  a  stand.  Come !  Eugenia 
help  me  to  arrange  this  drapery,  for  I  cannot  get  it  to  hang 
to  my  satisfaction."  Eugenia  obeyed,  and  at  length  every 
thing  was  in  a  state  of  readiness ;  and  Eugenia  returned 
home,  to  make  her  own  personal  preparations  for  the  great 
occasion,  which  was  to  take  place  the  night  but  one  after. 
Eugenia,  as  she  would  have  expressed  it  herself,  had  now 
been  two  years  in  the  market ;  for  though  not  a  great  deal 
older  than  Alice,  she  had  been  brought  forward  much 
earlier ;  her  parents,  who  had  a  large  family,  being  anxious 
to  have  her  disposed  of  as  soon  as  possible.  As  things 
however  had  not  turned  out  exactly  as  they  wished,  there 
was  now  a  considerable  degree  of  solicitude  experienced  on 
the  subject,  by  both  parents  and  daughter ;  and  the  latter 
had  began  to  think  it  necessary  to  economise  her  resources, 
and  consequently,  to  encourage  by  various  little  indirect 
marks  of  favour.  Dr.  Woodford's  attentions,  as  a  dernier 
alternative,  (though  he  was  the  only  man  whose  affection 
she  had  ever  felt  assured  of,)  till  she  saw  what  were  the 
intentions  of  her  wealthier  lover.     With  this  determination 


RETALIATION.  219 

she  appeared  at  the  ball  with  all  the  advantages  of  dress 
and  fashion,  united  to  a  degree  of  beauty  far  above  the 
common  standard,  and  was  soon  surrounded  by  a  train  of 
admirers,  amongst  whom  Alice  observed,  with  no  small 
curiosity,  to  see  how  she  would  acquit  herself  to  each, 
Dorrisville  and  Woodford.  Eugenia,  however,  was  too 
well  practised  in  such  little  arts,  to  be  at  any  loss  how  to 
manage  both  gentlemen  ;  and  being  determined  to  get  quit 
of  Woodford  without  offending  his  feelings,  and  thus  give 
herself  an  opportunity  of  flattering  Dorrisville's  weak  mind 
by  a  display  of  more  undivided  attention,  she  turned  to 
Woodford,  and  said,  "  there  are  some  distinguished  stran- 
gers in  the  room,  and  as  Mrs.  Grey  is  desirous  that  they 
should  receive  particular  attention,  I  have  promised  her 
and  Alice  to  turn  over  some  of  my  beaux  to  them,  and 
shall  if  you  please,  begin  with  you.  So  come,  and  I  will 
introduce  you." 

"  As  the  one  you  can  most  easily  spare  I  suppose." 

" Nay,"  returned  Eugenia  smiling.  "I  promised  Mrs. 
Grey  to  be  generous,  and  that  would  be  no  way  of  keeping 
my  promise." 

"  Then  you  are  going  to  offer  me  up  a  sacrifice  at  the 
altar  of  conscience.  But  I  must  declare  against  being  made 
a  martyr.     I  have  no  taste  for  such  distinction." 

"  No,  I  am  rather  myself  sacrificing  at  the  shrine  of 
vanity.  You  see  Alice  has  given  up  Dudley,  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  outdone  by  her." 

"  But  you  promise  to  dance  with  me  afterwards  ?" 

"  Certainly  with  pleasure." 

Alice,  who  was  near  enough  at  the  time  to  hear  this 
coversation,  and  then  saw  the  lover  go  flattered  and  delight- 
ed to  be  presented  to  the  distinguished  foreigners,  breathed 
a  half-suppressed  sigh,  as  she  said  within  herself,  "  If  this 
is  the  way  of  the  world,  I  care  not  how  little  I  see  of  it." 
But  she  was  interrupted  in  her  moral  reflections,  by  the  gen- 
tleman with  whom  she  was  engaged  to  dance,  taking  her 


220  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

hand  and  leading  her  out ;  and  as  dancing  was  an  amuse- 
ment of  which  she  was  exceedingly  fond,  she  soon  forgot 
Eugenia,  and  her  coquetry  in  the  enjoyment  of  it.  In  an 
instant  however  the  busy  whirl  was  stopped,  and  every 
foot  stood  motionless,  as  if  seized  with  paralysis ;  for  to  the 
astonishment  of  all  Mr.  Pole  entered  the  room  in  the  fancy 
dress  of  a  French  nobleman  of  the  ancient  regime.  His 
rich  satin  coat  and  other  appendages  were  loaded  with  em- 
broidery and  sparkling  with  jewels,  his  feet  nearly  covered 
with  his  large  diamond  buckles,  and  his  hands  almost 
equally  concealed  by  his  long  point  lace  ruffles,  his  hair 
loaded  with  powder  was  confined  behind  in  a  large  black 
bag,  while  his  chapeau  de  bras  under  his  arm  and  the  long 
sword,  highly  ornamented  with  jewelry  which  hung  at  his 
side,  completed  his  equipment.  Walking  straight  up  to  Mrs. 
Grey,  he  paid  his  devoirs  in  a  style  perfectly  in  character ; 
but  being  struck  with  the  expression  of  her  face,  he  began 
to  look  around.  "  How  is  this  ?"  he  exclaimed,  "  am  I  the 
only  person  in  costume." 

"  Did  you  understand  that  the  invitation  was  given  for  a 
masquerade  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Grey,  smiling  with  as  much 
politeness  as  her  mortified  feelings  would  permit. 

"  No,  not  so  !"  returned  the  glittering  beau,  "  but  I 
received  a  note  yesterday  from  Dudley  saying  that  a  num- 
ber of  Miss  Grey's  friends  intended  to  play  a  little  trick 
upon  you,  by  coming  in  costume,  and  begging  I  would  join 
the  party." 

"  It  was  a  very  extraordinary  thing  in  Mr.  Dudley  to 
take  such  a  liberty ;  and  exceedingly  unlike  him  to  do  so," 
returned  the  lady  of  the  house.  "But  here  he  comes,  to 
speak  for  himself"  And  at  the  same  moment  Temple 
whose  partner  had  very  unceremoniously  quitted  him  to 
join  the  gazing  throng  that  was  rapidly  crowding  round 
Mrs.  Grey  and  her  jewelled  companion,  came  up  to  learn 
the  cause  of  the  extraordinary  sight.  "  Dudley,"  cried  Pole 
turning  fiercely  round  to  the  young  man  as  he   spoke. 


RETALIATION.  221 

"  what  was  the  purport  of  the  note  you  sent  me  yesterday 
mornhig  ?" 

"  I  did  not  send  any  note  to  you  yesterday,  either  morn- 
ing, noon  or  night,"  repUed  Dudley,  in  a  quiet  but  firm  tone. 

"What  sir?"  cried  the  enraged  beau,  while  his  eyes 
flashed  with  a  fire  that  rivalled  even  the  diamonds  on  his 
coat.     "  Do  you  mean  to  give  me  the  lie  ?" 

"  No,  but  I  mean  to  say  that  you  lie  under  a  mistake." 

"  This  is  intolerable !  exclaimed  the  furious  coxcomb. 
To  make  a  fool  of  me,  and  then  laugh  at  it  into  the  bargain." 

"  This  is  a  scene  got  up  for  the  occasion  no  doubt,"  said 
Dr.  Woodford,  to  Eugenia,  at  whose  side  he  had,  in  the 
confusion  again  contrived  to  place  himself  "  But  Dudley  is 
too  tame  over  his  part.  I  wish  he  had  commissioned  me,  I 
think  I  could  have  done  it  better.  Pole,  however,  hits  oif 
his  to  admiration.  I  had  no  idea  he  could  have  acted  so 
well." 

"  Somebody  must  have  played  a  trick  upon  you  un- 
doubtedly Mr.  Pole,"  said  Dr.  Grey,  who  had  been  standing 
with  a  countenance  of  great  mortification,  listening  to  the 
dispute ;  "  but  as  there  has  been  as  little  delicacy  shown 
towards  me,  as  to  yourself,  I  believe  we  may  fairly  acquit 
Mr.  Dudley  of  all  suspicion. 

"  No,  sir  it  is  impossible  that  he  can  be  acquitted.  The 
hand  writing  sir  which — " 

"  Has  been  counterfeited,  as  many  a  man's  has  been  done 
before,"  interrupted  Dudley,  "  or  we  should  not  hear  of  so 
many  executions  for  forgery." 

"  A  mere  paltry  subterfuge  !"  returned  the  furious  man, 
whose  passion  displayed  the  irritability  of  the  Frenchman 
as  perfectly  as  his  dress  exhibited  the  personal  appearance. 
"  I  know  your  hand- writing  as  well  as  I  do  my  own. 
You  have  insulted  me,  sir,  and  I  will  have  satisfaction." 

"  I  hope  to  be  able  to  give  you  the  satisfaction  of  find- 
ing you  charge  me  unjustly,  by  discovering  the  real 
offender,"  said  the  accused,  still  speaking  with  the  utmost 

19* 


222  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

calmness.  "  I  will  come  to  you  to-morrow  morning,  and 
we  will  set  about  an  investigation." 

"  No,  sir,  there  is  no  need  of  investigation ;  the  thing 
is  self-evident,  as  your  own  hand-writing  will  prove  ;  and 
I  will  have  satisfaction,  or " 

"  Or  you  will  blow  me  up  !  You  have  certainly  brought 
powder  enough  with  you  to  do  it,"  said  Dudley,  laughing, 
as  the  sudden  starts  that  Pole  gave  his  body  in  his  pas- 
sion made  the  powder  fly  about  the  room.  If  every 
Englishman  carried  as  much  powder,  the  Americans  might 
give  up  all  thoughts  of  Oregon.  '•'  But,  after  all,  Pole," 
he  continued,  in  a  remonstrating  tone,  "  what  great  harm 
has  been  done? — unless,  indeed,  the  wearing  of  this  dress 
should  cost  you  as  much  as  Prince  Esterhazy's  is  said  to 
do  every  time  he  puts  it  on.  You  have  certainly  appeared 
many  a  time  in  a  masquerade  dress  before." 

"  What  harm  has  been  done  ?  Is  it  no  harm  to  be  held 
up  to  ridicule?"  cried  Pole,  almost  choking  with  passion; 
for,  besides  having  caught  a  glance  of  the  look  of  high 
enjoyment  depicted  on  Eugenia's  face,  his  own  laughable 
figure,  multiplied  before  him  by  the  many  mirrors  that 
surrounded  him,  almost  drove  him  to  madness.  And, 
indeed,  his  appearance  was,  by  this  time,  truly  ludicrous, 
for  the  heat  into  which  he  had  put  himself  had  displaced 
the  rouge  that  had  been  very  liberally  bestowed  on  his 
cheeks,  and  the  powder  from  his  loaded  locks,  had  trans- 
ferred itself  to  replenish  the  vacant  places.  "  I  will 
prove  the  falsehood  of  which  you  have  been  guilty,  and 
demand  the  satisfaction  of  a  gentleman,"  he  continued, 
"  Your  own  writing  shall  convict  you ;"  and  so  saying 
he  rushed  out  of  the  room  without  further  ceremony. 

A  general  silence  for  sometime  ensued,  interrupted  only 
by  an  occasional  burst  of  laughter,  as  the  recollection  of 
his  ludicrous  appearance  flashed  across  some  young 
mind  ;  but  even  that  died  away,  for  it  met  with  no  genial 
response.     Even  those  who  were  unaffected  by  anxiety, 


RETALIATION.  223 

were  too  full  of  curiosity  and  conjecture  to  give  way  to 
risibility.  The  music,  which  had  been  silenced  by  the 
general  tumult,  again  sounded ;  the  gentlemen  again 
claimed  the  hands  of  their  partners,  and  the  show  of 
amusement  again  commenced ;  but  even  the  poor  imita- 
tion of  pleasure,  which,  in  general,  is  all  that  can  be 
found  on  such  occasions,  here  failed.  The  host  and 
hostess  were  both  deeply  mortified,  and  Alice,  notwith- 
standing all  Temple's  assurances  that  he  would  not  stand 
to  be  shot  at,  to  make  amends  for  another  man's  offences, 
could  not  help  feeling  so  anxious  that  it  was  painful  to 
her  to  perform  the  duties  of  the  night.  The  dancing 
went  on,  it  is  true,  and  the  refreshments  were  partaken 
of,  as  usual ;  but  though,  we  presume,  that  on  such  occa- 
sions the  moment  of  the  departure  of  her  guests  is  gener- 
ally the  happiest  period  for  the  hostess,  to  Mrs.  Grey  it 
was  doubly  so  :  she  smiled  and  bowed  and  looked  the 
lady  to  the  last,  but  she  felt  that  nothing  would  be  so 
delightful  to  her  as  to  retire  to  her  chamber,  where  she 
could  be  silent  and  alone. 

"  Oh,  Dudley,"  cried  she,  as  that  young  man  came  to 
make  his  parting  bow,  "  I  am  tired  to  death  of  smiling, 
and  want  of  all  things  to  look  grave." 

"Then  I  will  make  you  so  at  once,  by  withdrawing  my- 
self," returned  he  gaily,  bowing  and  retiring  as  he  spoke. 

"  If  that  young  man  be  the  author  of  that  contemptible 
trick,  he  is  the  most  extraordinary  hypocrite  I  ever  saw," 
said  the  rector,  after  Dudley  had  left  the  room. 

"  I  beg  you  will  not  suspect  him  of  such  a  thing," 
returned  the  lady  ;  "  he  is  incapable  of  any  thing  so  mean 
and  dishonorable." 

The  next  morning,  before  Alice  had  left  the  breakfast 
table,  the  following  note  was  handed  to  her  : 

"  Mt  dear  Alice, 

"  Though  I  believe  there  is  not  much  danger  of  Mr. 


224  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

Pole's  calling  me  out,  every  body  may  not  be  equally 
safe,  and,  therefore,  to  prevent  serious  consequences,  I 
think  it  best  to  acknowledge  that  I  was  the  writer  of  the 
note  sent  to  him.  My  skill  in  imitating  any  hand-writing 
is  known  to  you  of  old,  as  I  used  to  practice  it  at  school, 
out  of  a  love  of  mischief.  It  was  employed  in  the  pre- 
sent instance  to  gratify  an  equally  natural,  though,  I  fear, 
not  quite  so  innocent  a  propensity ;  but  when  I  recollect 
how  ridiculous  Pole  made  himself,  I  cannot  pretend  to 
say  I  am  sorry  for  what  I  did.  I  have  no  objection  to 
his  seeing  this  note  ;  indeed,  it  is  due  to  Dudley,  that  he 
should  be  able  to  show  it.  I  hope  your  papa  and 
mamma  will  forgive  me,  as  I  am  sure  Dudley  and  you 
will.  Yours,  truly, 

"  Eugenia  Grafton." 

"  What  a  strange  world  this  is  !"  said  Alice,  as  she 
handed  the  note  to  her  father.  "  I  begin  to  be  tired  of  it 
already." 

"  Yes,  my  child,  it  is  a  strange  world  undoubtedly," 
returned  the  rector.  "  It  is  one,  however,  through  which 
you  have  to  pass,  and  ought  therefore  to  know  something 
about  it.  But  you  are  now  old  enough  to  look  upon  it 
in  its  proper  light,  and  keep  yourself  unspotted." 

"  I  am  really  glad  this  unpleasant  affair  is  cleared  up," 
said  Mrs.  Grey,  "  for  I  could  not  bear  that  Temple  should 
be  suspected  of  any  thing  so  contemptible.  It  was  a 
most  unpardonable  liberty  for  Eugenia  to  take  with  us 
all ;  but  what  will  a  woman  not  do  when  she  thirsts  for 
revenge  ?" 

"  I  will  get  Dudley  to  go  with  me,  as  soon  as  possible, 
to  call  upon  Pole,"  said  the  rector.  "  No  time  should  be 
lost  in  making  the  explanation."  This  was  done.  Pole 
expressed  himself  satisfied ;  the  gentlemen  shook  hands, 
and  the  thing  was  dropt.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say 
that  Alice  never  was  on  the  same  intimate  terms  with 
Eugenia  from  that  time. 


RETALIATION.  225 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  Mind,  Dudley,  the  Winters  are  to  be  here  this  evcnhig, 
and  I  have  promised  them  some  music.  So  be  sure  you 
send  your  guitar  round,"  said  Ahce,  one  morning,  a  few 
weeks  after  the  bah,  to  her  lover,  as  he  sat  by  her  side. 

"  I  am  sorry  it  happens  so,  but  I  am  engaged  to  dine 
with  Pole  to-day." 

"  I  thought  you  had  got  to  the  end  of  all  those  engage- 
ments," said  Alice,  in  a  tone  of  disappointment. 

"  So  I  had,  but  Pole,  who  is  to  have  a  large  party, 
urged  me  so  much  to  dine  with  him  to-day,  that  after  the 
unpleasant  affair  at  your  ball,  I  did  not  feel  that  I  could 
well  refuse." 

"  I  do  not  see  how  you  could ;  but  how  glad  I  shall  be 
when  you  have  done  with  all  such  appointments." 

"  I  shall  be  as  glad  as  yourself,"  returned  Temple, 
"  for  I  have  been  exceedingly  disgusted  with  some  of  the 
scenes  I  have  witnessed  lately,  and  am  convinced  they 
are  dangerous  places  for  a  young  man  to  frequent." 

"  And  to  think,  too,  that  the  reason  of  their  making 
such  a  point  of  your  joining  them  is,  that  you  should 
help  to  entertain  their  guests,  is  too  bad !  Let  them  hire 
their  musicians,  if  they  must  have  music.  By  the  bye,  I 
really  think  you  must  be  out  of  love  with  me,"  she  con- 
tinued, playing  upon  the  words  in  the  gaiety  of  her  heart, 
"for  you  have  not  given  me  a  serenade  this  long  time." 

"  You  shall  have  one  when  I  come  home  to-night,  if 
you  will  promise  to  give  me  some  token  that  you  hear 
me.  It  is  dull  work  to  sing  to  stone  walls,  or  even  flow- 
ers— for  though  flowers  are  frequently  said  to  smile,  they 
certainly  do  not  often  speak,  and  their  approving  looks, 
even  should  they  bestow  them,  are  lost  in  the  dark." 


226  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

"  Well,  I  promise  to  give  you  a  token.  I  will  throw 
you  out  a  sprig  of  box  from  the  window  of  my  palace, 
and  I  suppose  you  will  understand  it." 

"  Yes,  perfectly,  and  would  give  twenty  serenades  for 
such  a  reward ;  so  be  sure  to  keep  awake  till  I  come." 

"  I  will  provide  myself  with  two  little  sticks  to  prop 
my  eyelids  up  with,  in  case  I  should  get  sleepy,"  said 
the  laughing  and  playful  girl,  as  her  lover  left  her.  But 
though  Alice  had  laughed  and  joked  whilst  Dudley  was 
with  her,  an  unaccountable  weight  hung  over  her  spirits 
the  rest  of  the  day,  and  she  found  herself  unable  to  settle 
to  any  regular  occupation.  She  felt  glad  that  the  com- 
pany of  her  friends  called  for  her  exertions  during  the 
evening,  and  she  sung  and  played,  not  from  the  lightness 
of  her  heart,  but  as  a  relief  from  its  heaviness ;  and 
when  at  length  they  took  their  leave,  she  hastened  to  her 
chamber,  not  because  she  was  sleepy  and  needed  the 
little  sticks  to  prop  up  her  eyelids,  but  because  she  was 
anxious  to  conceal  from  her  parents  the  restlessness  she 
could  not  repress.  Long  did  she  lie  listening,  and  though 
she  frequently  found  herself  wiping  away  a  tear,  as 
often  did  she  ask  herself  why  it  had  sprung  to  her  eye. 
Twelve,  one,  two  o'clock  struck,  and  still  he  came  not. 
Every  now  and  then  she  stopped  her  breath,  lest  it 
should  prevent  her  catching  the  distant  sounds  of  his 
guitar.  At  length  a  few  faint  notes  struck  her  ear,  and 
she  listened  with  almost  breathless  attention.  Again  it 
sounded — but  could  it  be  Temple's  fingers  that  passed 
over  those  strings  ?  There  were  none  of  his  full,  clear 
tones  to  be  distinguished,  but  an  indistinctness  and  in- 
certitude in  the  touch  perceptible,  even  at  that  distance, 
which  never  before  were  heard  in  his  performances. 
Then  a  voice,  which,  in  spite  of  all  her  endeavors  to  per- 
suade herself  to  the  contrary,  she  could  not  but  acknow- 
ledge to  be  his,  struck  her  ear — but  oh  !  how  unlike  its 
usual  self!     It  was  still  too  distant  for  her  to  hear  the 


/ 


RETALIATION.  227 

"words ;  but  whatever  they  might  be,  they  were  succeeded 
by  a  loud  and  boisterous  burst  of  laughter,  which  proved 
he  had  several  companions.  In  a  minute  or  two  the 
trampling  of  feet  told  their  near  approach. 

"  Now,  Dudley,  begin,"  said  a  voice  that  made  Alice 
shudder  and  turn  sick ;  for  though  the  sound  was  sup- 
pressed, she  immediately  recognized  it  to  be  Pole's ; 
"and  we  will  join  in  the  chorus." 

Alice,  trembling,  and  scarcely  able  to  command  her 
steps,  stole  softly  to  the  window,  and  through  the  Vene- 
tian she  saw  the  lover  who  had  hitherto  been  the  pride 
of  her  heart,  balance  himself  against  a  tree,  and  then 
raising  his  instrument  and  preluding  for  a  minute  or  two, 
he  began  to  sing,  but  with  such  huskiness  of  voice  and 
indistinctness  of  utterance,  that  the  following  words  could 
scarcely  be  understood : 

"Come,  fill  a  bumper  to  the  brim, 

And  drink  to  her  whom  I  adore, 
'Till  all  around  in  joy  shall  swim, 

And  care  can  grieve  our  hearts  no  more. 
Come,  send  the  bottle  round,  my  boys  ! 
And  drink  to  love  and  all  its  joys, 

'Till » 

But  here  the  inebriate,  notwithstanding  the  prop  he  had 
the  precaution  to  seek  before  he  had  begun,  lost  his  bal- 
ance, and  was  in  danger  of  falling,  when  some  of  his 
companions,  not  much  steadier  than  himself,  attempted 
to  catch  hold  of  him,  but  having  nearly  lost  the  power 
of  supporting  themselves,  a  scuffle  ensued,  which  was 
accompanied  with  so  many  shouts  and  bursts  of  laughter 
that  windows  in  all  directions  were  thrown  open,  and 
the  cry  of  "  Watch  !"  was  repeated  on  all  sides. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  a  watchman  coming  up,  and  speak- 
ing in  a  respectful  tone,  "  such  a  disturbance  cannot  be 
allowed  at  this  time  of  night.     Mr.  Dudley,"  he  added, 


228  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

placing  his  hand  gently  on  Temple's  arm,  "you  are  very 
near  your  own  door — allow  me  to  walk  home  with  you." 

"  No — I  must  have  my  token  before  I  go  !"  cried  tl^e 
young  man,  shaking  himself  loose  from  the  guardian  of 
the  night  as  he  spoke.  "  I  must  have  my  token  ! — I  must 
have  the  sprig  of  boxwood  that  was  promised  me  !" 

Poor  Alice  stood  trembling  and  writhing  with  distress 
and  shame,  which  was  increased  to  the  utmost  pitch  on 
hearing  Pole  cry  out, 

"  That's  a  man,  Dudley  ! — stand  up  for  your  rights! — 
knock  the  fellow  down,  if  he  is  impertinent." 

"  Gentlemen,  I  must  spring  the  rattle,  if  you  do  not 
disperse  and  go  quietly  home,"  urged  the  man,  with 
gentle  firmness. 

"  I  say,  I  must  have  my  token  !"  reiterated  Dudley ; 
"  and  nothing  shall  stir  me  from  here  till  I  get  it." 

"  That's  right,  my  boy  ! — stand  firm,  and  we  will  help 
you  to  stop  this  old  fellow's  mouth."  As  Pole  said  this, 
he  made  a  menacing  motion  to  the  watchman,  who  im- 
mediately sprung  his  rattle,  and  in  an  instant  an  over- 
powering number  of  auxiliaries  coming  to  his  aid,  the 
whole  party  was  immediately  conducted  to  the  watch- 
house.  At  the  same  moment  Alice's  room  door  was 
opened,  and  her  mother  entered.  The  agonized  girl 
turned,  with  the  intention  of  throwing  herself  on  her 
bosom,  but  before  she  could  do  so,  her  limbs  sunk  under 
her,  and  she  fell  fainting  on  the  floor. 


nETALIATION.  229 


CHAPTER  VL 


Poor  Alice  ! — Sad  and  dreary  were  the  hours  passed  by 
her  from  the  time  of  her  return  to  consciousness,  when, 
at  her  own  particular  request,  she  was  left  alone  till  the 
morning  dawn  brought  her  tender  and  anxious  mother 
to  her  side.  Too  acutely  miserable,  however,  to  bear 
conversation,  sHe  begged  to  have  the  room  darkened  and 
to  be  again  left  alone  ;  and  then  she  closed  her  eyes,  as 
if  in  hopes  by  that  means  of  shutting  out  from  her  but 
too  wakeful  mind  the  dreadful  images  of  the  preceding 
night.  But  in  vain,  alas  !  was  the  attempt.  Dudley,  the 
long-loved  Dudley,  sunk  in  all  the  loathsome  degradation 
of  debauch,  was  ever  present  to  her  imagination,  and 
made  her  writhe  with  agony.  Here  was  an  end  to  all 
the  gay  dreams  which  had  hitherto  brightened  her  path ; 
for  she  had  promised  her  father  solemnly,  that  if  ever 
her  lover  yielded  to  the  temptations  by  which  he  was  so 
frequently  beset,  she  would  drive  him  at  once,  and  for- 
ever, from  her  heart.  She  even  rejoiced  that  she  had 
actually  witnessed  his  disgrace — for  now,  instead  of  the 
Dudley  that  had  so  long  possessed  her  affections,  she  saw 
only  the  boisterous  bacchanalian,  who  had  lost  all  sense 
of  delicacy  for  either  himself  or  her  ;  and  she  imagined, 
for  the  moment,  that  she  would  never  wish  that  they 
should  meet  again.  Several  days  elapsed  before  she 
could  be  prevailed  upon  to  change  the  scene,  so  far  even 
as  to  go  into  her  formerly  so  much  loved  little  palace ; 
but  at  length,  on  her  mother  telling  her  that  her  father 
wished  to  have  some  conversation  with  her,  she  arose, 
and  dressing  herself  as  plainly  as  possible,  and  binding 
up  her  luxuriant  tresses,  so  that  no  straggling  ringlet 
could  make  its  escape  and  give  the  slightest  approach  to 

20 


230  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

gaiety  to  her  appearance,  she  begged  that  her  father 
might  be  told  that  she  was  ready  to  see  him.  But  how- 
different  was  the  Alice  that  the  rector  now  saw,  from  the 
one  whom  he  had  found  in  the  same  apartment  a  few 
weeks  before.  The  then  happy  girl,  a  stranger  to  sor- 
row, and  in  all  the  buoyancy  of  hope  and  expectation, 
and  averting  her  eye  from  his  gaze  only,  that  he  might 
not  read  in  it  the  happy  tumult  of  her  throbbing  breast — 
was  now  pale  and  motionless,  and  might  have  been  mis- 
taken for  a  marble  statue,  erected  to  the  memory  of  per- 
ished joys. 

Doctor  Grey,  though  indulgent  and  affectionate,  was 
firm  and  even  stern  in  the  cause  of  truth  and  honor ; 
and  not  supposing  that  one  so  young,  so  tender,  so  full  of 
the  tender  sympathies  of  the  heart,  could  at  once  yield 
up  her  fond  and  cherished  hopes  at  the  shrine  of  injured 
virtue,  he  had  deferred  the  meeting  with  his  daughter  till 
he  had  braced  his  nerves  and  strengthened  his  resolution 
to  withstand  the  pleadings  with  which  he  expected  to  be 
assailed.  He  entered  the  room,  therefore,  with  a  look  of 
the  tenderest  compassion,  but  at  the  same  time  of  firm 
resolve,  and  kissing  his  child  affectionately,  he  seated 
himself  by  her  side,  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"  I  have  asked  to  see  you,  my  Alice,"  he  said,  in  a 
gentle  and  sympathizing  tone,  "because  I  thought  it  right 
that  you  should  be  informed  of  the  result  of  my  conver- 
sation with  Temple,  that  suspense  might  not  add  another 
pang  to  those  you  have  already  to  bear.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  for  me  to  say  that  he  and  his  companions  were 
soon  liberated  from  their  temporary  confinement,  and 
after  allowing  him  a  day  or  two,  that  he  might  be  entirely 
restored  to  himself,  I  called  upon  him,  and  found  him,  as 
I  fully  expected,  sunk  in  the  bitterest  remorse  and  shame 
for  what  had  past ;  and  with  the  delicacy  that  he  has 
ever  evinced,  when  in  possession  of  himself,  grieved 
beyond  measure  at  the  disgrace  he  had  brought  upon 


RETALIATION.  231 

you.  I  then  told  him  of  the  fears  I  had  entertained,  from 
seeing  the  company  with  which  he  had  begun  to  asso- 
ciate, and  the  engagement  that  you  and  I  had  conse- 
quently entered  into,  the  reasonableness  of  which  he 
frankly  acknowledged,  declaring  that  purity,  such  as  my 
Alice's,  should  never  be  contaminated  by  an  association 
with  any  thing  that  had  ever  been  sullied  by  vice.  I 
then  said  that,  in  accordance  with  the  promise  you  had 
solemnly  given  me,  and  which,  I  had  too  much  confi- 
dence in  you  to  think  you  would  wish  to  revoke,  I  ex- 
pected that  all  communication  between  you  would  cease 
for  the  future,  as  it  would  be  much  easier  to  both  not  to 
meet  at  all,  than  to  meet  as  comparative  strangers.  He 
heard  all  this  with  the  utmost  humility,  and  exhibited 
throughout  that  propriety  of  feeling  that  has  ever,  on  all 
occasions,  except  on  that  one  unhappy  night,  accompa- 
nied all  his  words  and  actions." 

"  After  such  a  testimony  in  his  favor,"  said  Mrs.  Grey, 
who  had,  according  to  Alice's  request,  followed  her  hus- 
band into  the  room,  "  I  really  think  your  sentence  too 
severe.  A  single  lapse  is  certainly  not  sufficient  to  coun- 
terbalance so  many  noble  qualities  ;  and  I  should  esteem 
it  more  consistent  with  justice  and  Christian  charity  to 
allow  him  a  chance  of  redeeming  himself,  by  abandon- 
ing, for  any  number  of  years  you  think  right  to  stipulate, 
his  dangerous  companions,  and  carefully  avoiding  a  repe- 
tition of  his  offence." 

"  Oh,  no,  my  dearest  mother,"  said  Alice,  who  had 
never  before  spoken  on  the  subject,  since  the  moment  of 
the  dreadful  scene  she  had  witnessed,  "  it  is  better  as  it 
is.  If  he  loves  me,  and  I  cannot  but  believe  he  does, 
this  punishment  may  be  the  means  of  his  salvation  ;  but 
if  the  strong  motives  that  he  had  before  for  avoiding  the 
transgression,  were  insufficient  to  protect  him,  nothing 
short  of  the  sentence  that  papa  has  passed  will  have  the 
effect."     And   as  Alice   spoke,  the   recollection   of  the 


232  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

especial  tenderness  she  had  evinced  the  last  morning  they 
were  together,  rose  to  her  mind  and  checked  the  hopes 
that  her  mother  seemed  disposed  to  cherish. 

"  I  believe  you  are  right,  my  child,"  returned  the  rec- 
tor, "  and  especially  so,  as  Temple  acknowledged  to  me 
that  an  intimation  had  been  given  him  of  what  would 
be  the  consequence  if  he  permitted  himself  to  be  over- 
come ;  so  that  there  is  little  reason  to  hope  that  his  reso- 
lution will  stand  the  test  any  better  now  than  it  did 
before ;  and  your  being  exposed  to  a  repetition  of  such 
scenes  is  frightful  to  think  of.  It  is  hard,  very  hard,  I 
know,  to  part  with  that  which  we  have  so  much  loved 
and  valued — ^but  hard  as  it  is  now,  it  would  be  much 
more  so  if  additional  years  had  confirmed  and  strength- 
ened every  tender  tie.  And  if  the  scene  you  witnessed 
the  other  night  was  so  distressing,  what,  my  Alice, 
would  be  the  feelings  of  a  wife,  if  she  saw  the  being  on 
whom  she  depended  for  every  earthly  comfort,  sunk, 
night  after  night,  into  the  same  state  of  degradation? 
No,  Alice,  dear  as  you  are  to  my  heart,  and  fondly  as  all 
my  hopes  in  this  life  are  twined  around  you,  rather 
would  I  see  you  laid  in  an  early  grave,  than  exposed  to 
the  misery  of  being  the  wife  of  a  debauchee." 

"  I  am  perfectly  willing  to  accord  with  all  you  say  in  that 
respect,"  said  Mrs.  Grey,  "my  only  objection  is,  that  you 
have  set  him  down  for  such  too  hastily.  There  are  few 
men  who  have  not  been  drawn  occasionally  into  excess.  I 
cannot  therefore  think  it  just  to  stamp  his  character  for  one 
error." 

"  When  that  error  could  be  committed  under  a  know- 
ledge of  the  consequences,"  said  Alice,  whilst  offended  pride 
as  well  as  wounded  tenderness,  rose  in  arms  at  the  recollec- 
tion; "and  notwithstanding  all  my  remonstrances  and 
entreaties,  I  fear  there  is  little  room  to  hope  that  the  same 
companions  will  not  again  succeed  in  drawing  him  aside ; 
for  it  is  the  company,  not  the  dissipation  that  attracts  him." 


RETALIATION.  233 

"  It  is  a  lure,  '  said  her  father,  "  to  which  many  have 
fallen  a  sacrifice,  and  those  who  possess  so  many  attractive 
qualifications  as  he  does,  are  doubly  exposed ;  and  happy 
are  they  who  have  resolution  to  avoid  exposing  themselves 
to  temptation." 

At  this  moment  a  servant  entered  the  room  and  put  a 
note  into  Alice's  hand — It  was  from  Dudley,  and  was  as 
follows. 

"To  Miss  Alice  Grey. 

"  I  have  come  to  the  determination  of  leaving  the  country 
immediately,  for  I  cannot  bear  to  remain  in  it,  and  be 
estranged  from  you.  I  have  engaged  a  passage  in  a  vessel 
bound  for  South  America,  that  is  on  the  point  of  sailing. 
Alice,  I  do  not  ask  you  to  remember  me,  because  it  would 
be  better  for  you  that  you  should  forget  me  ;  and  I  have 
deserved  that  you  should  do  so.  But  whatever  may  be  my 
fate.  Oh  !  Alice,  may  happiness  be  thy  portion.  Happiness 
pure  and  perfect  as  thy  own  spotless  bosom ;  and  never 
mayest  thou  know  a  pang  like  that  which  now  tears  the 
breast  of  him,  who  under  every  circumstance  of  life,  will 
ever  be  thy  devoted  lover. 

"  Temple  Dudley." 

The  paper  dropped  from  Alice's  hand,  as  she  finished 
reading  it,  and  she  sat  without  either  heaving  a  sigh  or  shed- 
ding a  tear ;  and  though  she  had  not  fainted,  she  had  no 
appearance  of  either  thinking  or  feeling :  and  it  was  long 
before  she  began  to  discover  signs  of  consciousness.  Gladly 
would  they  have  seen  tears  come  to  her  relief,  but  her  eyes 
were  dry,  and  her  countenance  fixed,  in  an  expression  of 
unutterable  misery.  At  length  to  their  great  delight  she 
spoke,  and  requested  to  be  allowed  to  return  to  bed,  and 
left  to  herself;  and  hoping  that  if  left  to  the  unrestrained 
indulgence  of  her  feelings  she  might  be  able  in  time  to  give 
a  natural  vent  to  them,  she  was  left  alone.     And  here  in 

20* 


234  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

the  silence  and  loneliness  of  her  chamber,  with  no  eye  upon 
her  save  His  who  governs  all  things,  did  she  pour  forth  her 
heart  in  supplications  for  the  safety  and  welfare  of  hiin  on 
whom  she  so  fondly  doated.  The  conviction  that  it  was 
right  they  should  part,  remained  unchanged ;  but  every 
vestige  of  resentment,  or  wounded  pride  was  fled  from  her 
mind.  He  was  giving  an  irrefragable  proof  of  the  sincerity 
of  his  repentance,  by  flying  far  from  the  snares  that  had 
beset  him,  and  on  her  account  exposing  himself  to  all  the 
dangers  of  a  long  sea  voyage,  and  the  perils  of  a  foreign 
climate.  His  father  too,  whose  whole  soul  was  wrapt  up 
in  his  son,  through  her  means  was  about  to  be  deprived  of 
the  prop  and  pride  of  his  age,  and  would  perhaps  sink  into 
the  grave,  unattended  by  his  beloved  and  only  child.  Was 
her  mother  not  right  ?  Had  not  her  father  been  too  severe 
in  his  decision,  and  had  she  not  acquiesced  too  hastily  in  it  ? 
Had  not  offended  pride  swayed,  in  an  undue  degree  her 
judgment  of  his  offence  ;  and  the  idea  of  its  being  commit- 
ted almost  at  the  very  moment  of  her  remonstrances,  and 
of  her  having  assured  him  so  frankly  of  the  constancy  of 
her  affection,  given  additional  enormity  to  it  ?  The  vice,  it 
was  true,  remained  the  same  ;  but  surely  one  offence  might 
be  obliterated,  by  a  long  and  rigid  adherence  to  the  paths 
of  virtue.  Or  rather  a  careful  avoidance  of  that  one  dan- 
gerous step  ;  for  in  every  other  he  might  defy  envy  itself  to 
point  out  any  thing  that  was  not  worthy  of  applause  and 
admiration.  His  tearing  himself  at  once  so  promptly  from 
his  insidious  companions,  was  so  decided  a  proof,  (whatever 
she  might  have  thought  a  few  nights  ago,)  of  her  power 
being  far  superior  to  any  influence  which  they  had  yet 
acquired  over  him,  that  she  became  gradually  sensible  of  a 
mitigation  of  her  feelings,  with  regard  to  his  offence  ;  and 
though  she  never  wavered  with  respect  to  the  propriety  of 
their  present  separation,  she  was  not  without  a  latent  hope 
that  the  time  might  come,  when  they  should  again  be  united. 
As  the  hours  passed  on,  her  agitation  gradually  softened 


RETALIATION.  235 

down,  from  the  painful  tension  of  extreme  agony,  to  the 
gentle  and  tender  feelings  more  natural  to  her  character ; 
and  her  mother,  who  had  frequently  been  in  to  look  at  her, 
at  length  kissing  her  affectionately,  bade  her  "good  night" 
with  the  hope  that  she  was  liltely  before  long  to  sink  into  a 
refreshing  sleep.  She  had  not  left  the  room  many  minutes, 
before  Alice  started  and  her  heart  began  to  beat  violently,  for 
a  sound  struck  her  ear,  that  she  could  not  mistake.  It  was 
Dudley's  guitar.  It  came  nearer  and  nearer,  paused,  then 
began  again,  and  at  length  it  was  evidently  stationed  at  the 
accustomed  place.  For  some  time  the  notes  seemed  to  have 
no  regular  arrangement ;  but  as  was  often  his  custom,  his 
fingers  seemed  to  be  passing  almost  unbidden  over  the 
strings,  but  always  in  a  soft  and  plaintive  tone  ;  and  Alice 
fancied  more  than  once,  that  she  heard  a  faint  attempt  to 
sing  which  as  often  failed.  But  at  length  a  sweetly  tender 
melody  issued  from  the  instrument,  and  then  as  if  with  a 
considerable  effort  he  raised  his  voice,  and  Alice  heard  dis- 
tinctly the  following  words — 

"Ah!  soon  alas!  the  spreading  sails, 
Shall  bear  me,  lov'd  one,  far  from  thee; 

What  now  alas !  to  me  avails, 
The  love  thou  oft  hast  own'd  for  me! 

"Ah!  yes  remembrance  of  thy  love, 

Shall  cheer  me  on  my  lonely  course; 
And  to  my  aching  bosom  prove. 

Of  sweetest,  purest  hopes  the  source. 

"My  midnight  hours,  it  shall  illume, 

And  give  its  brightness  to  the  day; 
Like  that  sweet  lamp,  that  lights  the  tomb, 

And  cheers  the  dying  christian's  way; 

"Ah!  then  farewell !  my  lov'd,  my  lost, 

But  when  in  foreign  climes  afar, 
Or  on  the  ocean's  billows  tost, 

Thou  still  shalt  be  my  guiding  star." 


236  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

These  simple  but  tender  verses,  and  perhaps  still  more 
the  exquisitely  touching  strain  in  which  they  were  sung, 
brought  that  aid  to  Alice's  overcharged  heart,  that  kind 
nature  has  so  mercifully  provided  for  the  relief  of  the 
mourner  ;  and  before  the  music  had  ceased,  her  tears  that 
had  refused  to  flow  since  the  moment  of  her  receiving  the 
first  cruel  shock,  were  streaming  copiously  down  her 
cheeks.  "  He  is  gone,"  she  exclaimed,  as  the  last  strains 
of  the  instrument  died  away  on  her  ear;"  but  perhaps  not 
forever.  A  mind  so  refined,  so  sensitive,  so  full  of  affec- 
tion, can  never  fall  a  prey  to  vicious  indulgences ;"  and 
after  raising  her  heart  in  prayer  to  the  Great  Father  of 
all,  that  He  would  protect,  strengthen  and  bless  him,  she 
sank  into  a  sleep  that  had  for  many  nights  been  a  stran- 
ger to  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  Vll. 

Five  weeks  had  elapsed,  since  Alice,  when  casting  her  eyes 
one  morning  carelessly  over  a  newspaper  that  lay  near  her, 
had  seen  an  announcement  that  the  ship  Britannia  had 
sailed  the  previous  day  for  Lima  and  in  the  list  of  passen- 
gers, her  eye  had  caught  the  name  of  Temple  Dudley  Esq; 
and  with  the  certainty  that  he  was  actually  gone — gone  to 
encounter  all  the  dangers  of  a  long  sea  voyage,  as  well  as 
the  hazards  attendant  on  a  foreign  climate — the  faint  glim- 
mering of  hope  that  had  begun  to  kindle  died  away,  and 
she  sunk  into  calm  but  settled  melancholy.  Life  seemed  to 
have  lost  all  its  charms ;  and  a  thick  black  veil  to  be  drawn 
close  around  her.  It  is  true  she  still  had  her  parents,  who 
were  if  possible,  more  tender  and  affectionate  than  ever ; 
nay  her  father,  who  had  hitherto  been  much  disposed  to 
treat  her  merely  as  a  child,  had  lately  united  to  the  aflTection 


RETALIATION.  237 

of  the  parent,  the  respect  and  deference  of  a  friend  ;  for  the 
firmness  with  which  she  had  adhered  to  what  she  beUeved 
to  be  right,  had  gained  at  once,  his  esteem  and  admiration: 
but  yet,  much  as  she  loved  them,  they  failed  to  fill  the 
aching  void  that  was  in  her  heart,  for  he  who  had  given 
charms  to  every  scene,  who  had  shared  her  little  troubles, 
and  given  double  zest  to  every  pleasure,  was  far,  far  away, 
perhaps  never  to  return ;  nay  he  might  even  at  that  very 
moment  be  suffering  the  miseries  of  shipwreck  and  death. 
And  as  the  idea  that  if  such  should  be  his  fate,  she  would 
have  been  the  cause  of  it,  shot  through  her  mind,  she  would 
start  convulsively,  and  fly  to  hide  her  misery  in  the  silence 
and  solitude  of  her  own  chamber.  Then  again  gentler 
thoughts  would  succeed  and  she  would  dwell  upon  the  ten- 
derness with  which  he  had  devoted  the  very  last  moments, 
previous  to  his  departure  to  her,  and  the  sweetly  pathetic 
tones  in  which,  he  had  breathed  out  his  "  farewell"  would 
seem  to  float  upon  her  ear,  as  if  she  still  heard  them,  and 
produce  a  sad  but  not  unpleasing  melancholy.  She  was  in 
one  of  these  moods  one  day  as  she  sat  by  her  father  in  his 
study,when  a  gentle  tap  was  heard  at  the  door  and  in  com- 
pliance with  the  Doctor's  "  come  in"  the  door  opened,  and 
a  man  who  had  some  years  before  been  employed  by  the 
rector  in  his  stables,  but  had  been  dismissed  in  conse- 
quence of  his  intemperate  habits,  advanced  a  step  or  two 
into  the  room.  When  he  first  came  into  the  service  of  the 
Doctor,  he  was  a  very  fine  looking  man,  but  his  intemper- 
ate habits  had  very  materially  injured  his  appearance.  He 
was  now  however  perfectly  sober,  and  looked  as  if  he  had 
been  so  for  a  considerable  time.  His  dress  though  perfectly 
clean,  consisted  of  no  other  article  than  a  striped  shirt,  and 
a  pair  of  ragged  duck  trowsers.  "  I  would  be  glad  to  speak 
a  word  or  two  to  master,"  said  the  man,  who  was  a  native 
of  the  same  part  of  the  north  of  England,  from  which  the 
rector  originally  came. 

"  Well  Tommy,  what  hast  thou  to  say  to  me  ?"  inquired 


238  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

the  Doctor,  in  a  tone  of  great  benevolence  and  encourage- 
ment, and  addressing  him  as  he  generally  did  those  much 
beneath  him,  especially  if  in  distress,  in  the  second  person, 
as  sounding  more  fatherly  and  kind. 

"  Why  sir,"  said  Tommy,  who  had  on  his  entrance  taken 
something  off  his  head,  that  had  served  the  purpose  of  a  hat, 
but  which  he  now  rolled  up  in  his  hand,  as  if  to  hide  its 
deficiencies ;  "  I  'm  tired  of  drinking,  but  I  can  't  get  no 
'ployment,  and  I  'm  'shamed  to  beg  now." 

"  Well,  Tommy,  I  am  glad  to  hear  all  that,  but  what  dost 
thou  think  of  doing  that  is  better  ?" 

"  I  do  'nt  know  sir  !  But  I  thought  I  would  come  to  you 
and  maybe  you  would  tell  me." 

"  And  dost  thou  really  think  Tommy,  thou  wouldest 
stick  to  work,  if  thou  hadst  it?" 

"  Yes  sir.     I  only  wish  somebody  would  try  me  !" 

"  But  Tommy  thou  canst  not  go  to  seek  work  as  thou 
art !" 

"  I  know  that,  sir.  But  I  thought  you  would  tell  me  what 
to  do." 

"  Well,  Tommy,  I  will  tell  thee  what  we  must  do ;  we 
must,  first  of  all,  get  thee  some  clothes  to  put  on.  So  come 
with  me,  and  I  will  try  to  manage  that  business  for  thee, 
and  then  we  will  think  of  the  rest,"  and  taking  up  his  hat, 
the  rector  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  when  Alice,  who 
felt  a  degree  of  interest  about  Tommy,  that  she  had  not 
been  conscious  of,  for  several  weeks,  stopped  him  to  beg 
that  when  Tommy  was  equipped  in  his  new  suit,  her  father 
would  bring  him  back  with  him,  that  she  might  have  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  him.  It  was  not  very  long  before  they 
returned,  for  money  can  very  soon  clothe  the  naked,  and 
Alice's  eyes  emitted  something  of  their  natural  brilliancy, 
when  she  saw  the  poor  fellow  look  so  respectable  and 
happy.  "  Now  Alice,"  said  the  rector,  who  was  delighted 
to  see  any  thing  excite  an  interest,  even  for  a  moment,  in 
the  mind  of  his  drooping  daughter,  "  suppose  you  go  with 


RETALIATION.  239 

US,  for  I  mean  to  try  to  get  Tommy  some  employment  in 
Mr.  Falla's  nursery.  It  will  do  him  good  to  work  in  the 
open  air."  Alice,  who  had  never  before  been  prevailed 
upon  to  leave  the  house,  since  the  night  on  which  all  her 
earthly  hopes  were  blasted,  immediately  consented,  and 
being  soon  equipped  for  the  walk,  the  father  and  daughter 
set  out,  with  Tommy  walking  with  no  small  pride  and  de- 
light, at  their  heels.  On  arriving  at  the  garden,  the  rector 
inquired  for  Mr.  Falla,  and  being  shown  into  a  parlour  the 
nurseryman  soon  came  to  them  there. 

"  William,"  said  the  benevolent  Doctor,  "  I  have  brought 
you  a  new  man." 

"  Have  you  sir  !  But  I  do  not  think  we  want  one." 

"  William,"  continued  the  Rector,  smiling,  "  I  did  not  ask 
you  if  you  wanted  a  man,  I  only  said  I  had  brought  you 
one !"  ^ 

"  Well,  then,  sir,  if  that  is  the  case,  I  suppose  we  must 
take  him." 

"  But  remember,  William,"  added  Doctor  Grey,  and 
as  he  spoke  he  turned  with  a  serious  look  to  Tommy, 
"  though  I  have  pressed  you  to  take  him,  T  do  not  wish 
you  to  keep  him  any  longer  than  he  is  well-behaved  and 
industrious." 

Tommy  bowed  his  acknowledgment  of  what  his  patron 
had  said,  but  made  no  noisy  professions,  and  the  rector 
promising  to  be  a  friend  to  him  as  long  as  he  proved 
himself  worthy  of  his  kindness,  drew  Alice's  arm  within 
his  and  returned  home. 

"  How  I  wish  he  may  persevere  in  his  good  resolu- 
tions," said  Alice,  after  they  had  left  the  house. 

"  I  hope  he  will,  indeed,"  returned  the  father.  "  You 
must  go  with  me  frequently  to  see  him,  my  child.  It  is 
a  pretty  place  to  go  to,  and  it  will  be  an  encouragement 
to  poor  Tommy  to  see  you  take  an  interest  in  his  well- 
doing." The  kind  father  had  another  motive  for  what 
he  said,  that  he  did  not  explain  to  his  daughter ;  but  he 


240  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

was  anxious  to  make  use  of  the  first  thing  that  had  in  the 
shghtest  degree  drawn  AHce  from  her  own  sorrows,  and 
hoped,  by  means  of  it,  to  be  able  to  draw  her  into  taking 
some  httle  exercise — for  her  faded  colour,  beamless  eye, 
and  almost  total  loss  of  appetite,  had  begun  to  awaken 
the  most  serious  alarm  for  her  health.  Before  many  days 
had  passed,  Alice  was  invited  by  her  father  to  take  another 
walk  to  the  nursery,  to  see  how  their  protege  was  getting 
on.  On  arriving  at  the  garden,  however,  they  were  told 
that  Tommy  was  at  home,  for  he  was  too  sick  to  work. 
Half  afraid  that  his  sickness  might  be  the  effect  of  his 
own  imprudence,  the  rector,  after  learning  where  he 
lodged,  proposed  to  his  daughter  that  they  should  call 
and  see  what  was  the  matter  with  him,  to  which  she 
readily  agreed.  They  found  poor  Tommy  really  labour- 
ing, under  a  feverish  attack,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of 
hearing,  at  the  same  time,  from  his  landlady,  that  she  did 
not  believe  his  indisposition  arose  from  any  fault  of  his 
own.  As  Alice  was  fatigued  with  her  walk,  they  ac- 
cepted the  invitation  of  Tommy  and  the  mistress  of  the 
house,  "to  be  "seated,"  and  as  they  sat,  a  bullfinch  that 
was  in  a  cage  just  over  Alice's  head,  began  to  sing,  and 
to  the  young  girl's  utter  astonishment,  went  through, 
with  perfect  correctness,  the  air  to  which  Dudley  had  set 
the  simple  stanzas  of  "  Sleep  !  dearest,  sleep  !"  Alice's 
agitation  was  so  great  that  her  colour  went  and  came 
every  instant,  and  her  father,  in  pity  for  her  emotions, 
asked  Tommy  how  the  bird  happened  to  catch  that  tune. 
"  When  I  was  in  Mr.  Pole's  service,  your  honour," 
replied  Tommy,  "  Mr.  Dudley  used  often  to  come  to  his 
house,  and  happened  one  day  to  come  to  the  stables,  to 
look  at  a  new  horse  that  Mr.  Pole  had  bought,  and  Bully, 
that  was  hanging  in  his  cage  in  the  front  stable,  began  to 
sing  a  tune  that  it  had  just  learnt,  and  Mr.  Temple  was 
so  taken  with  him,  that  he  used  to  come  and  take  a  great 
deal  of  pains  to  teach  him  the  tune  that  he  has  just  been 


RETALIATION.  241 

singing,  as  he  said  it  was  a  favorite  tune  witli  a  friend  of 
his ;  and  after  it  had  learnt  it  perfectly,  he  said  he  meant 
to  take  it  to  let  his  friend  hear  it.  Indeed,  he  said,  if  I 
would  sell  it,  he  would  give  riie  almost  any  thing  I  chose 
to  ask  for  it.'^ 

"  Will  you  sell  it  to  me,  Tommy  ?"  asked  the  rector. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Tommy ;  "  you  must  please  excuse 
me." 

Doctor  Grey  said  no  more,  for  he  felt  that  to  urge  the 
man  to  dispose  of  his  pet,  would  be  like  extorting  it  from 
his  gratitude ;  besides  which,  he  could  not  but  acknow- 
ledge to  himself  that  Alice,  whose  agitation  was  now  so 
great  that  he  was  afraid  of  her  fainting,  was  better  with- 
out this  remembrancer  of  her  lover's  fond  affection.  As 
soon  as  she  appeared  sufficiently  composed  to  be  able  to 
walk,  he  proposed  their  return  home.  The  walk  was  a 
silent  one,  for  poor  Alice's  heart  was  too  full  to  admit  of 
conversation,  and  the  moment  she  got  into  the  house  she 
hastened  to  her  chamber,  to  dwell  upon  the  tenderness 
and  affection  of  him  who  was  now  far  away  from  her, 
and  whom,  in  all  probability,  she  would  never  see  again. 
This  little  incident  had  given  such  a  shake  to  Alice's 
nerves,  and  so  completely  destroyed  the  small  portion  of 
composure  she  had  been  able  to  acquire,  that  it  was  seve- 
ral days  before  she  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  mix  again 
with  the  family,  even  though  they  had,  on  her  account, 
withdrawn  almost  entirely  from  either  paying  or  receiv- 
ing visits.  One  day,  however,  in  compliance  with  her 
mother's  earnest  entreaties,  she  dressed  for  dinner,  and 
went  down  into  her  father's  study,  there  to  wait  his 
return,  as  he  was  out  walking.  She  had  not  been  there 
long  before  he  came  in,  and  she  noticed  immediately  that 
he  appeared  considerably  discomposed.  On  her  asking 
him  if  any  thing  was  amiss,  he  replied, 

"  Only  what  I  might  have  expected,  though  it  has  mor- 
tified me  a  good  deal,  now  that  it  has  happened.     Our 

21 


242  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

protege,  Tommy,  has  fallen  from  his  good  resolution,  and 
has  again  began  to  apply  to  the  brandy  bottle." 

"  Oh,  papa,  have  you  good  authority  for  thinking  so  ? 
Indeed,  I  can  hardly  believe  it  possible." 

"  As  I  was  near  his  lodgings,  this  morning,"  continued 
the  father,  "  I  thought  I  would  call  and  see  whether  he 
had  got  back  to  work  again,  and  if  he  had  not,  to  give 
the  poor  fellow  a  trifle  to  help  him  on,  as  he  was  not  at 
present  earning  any  money.  On  inquiring  for  him,  his 
landlady  said  '  he  was  still  too  sick  to  work,  but  Bully 
had  happened  to  get  out  of  his  cage  this  morning  and  fly 
away  somewhere,  and  nothing  could  persuade  Tommy 
from  going  to  seek  for  him.'  I  said  I  was  afraid  he  would 
fatigue  himself,  and  throw  himself  back  again ;  when  she 
replied,  '  Oh,  there  is  no  fear,  sir,  for  he  took  Brandy 
with  him.'  I  asked  her  if  he  had  often  done  so  ?  and 
she  said  '  he  had  pretty  often  since  he  was  sick  and  had 
nothing  to  do.'  " 

"  And  did  the  woman  not  seem  to  feel  any  concern  at 
his  having  broken  through  his  good  resolutions?" 

"Ah,  no!"  replied  the  rector;  "when  people  are  ac- 
customed to  such  things,  nothing  but  the  most  excessive 
drunkenness  seems  to  make  any  impression  on  them." 

Here  the  ringing  of  the  bell  for  dinner  put  a  stop  to 
the  conversation,  but  a  tinge  of  still  deeper  sadness  over- 
spread Alice's  pale  but  beautiful  face ;  and  though  the 
most  delicious  viands  were  placed  upon  her  plate,  they 
were  sent  away  untasted,  and  she  mourned  poor  Tom- 
my's lapse  with  as  much  interest  as  though  he  were  an 
old  and  intimate  friend.  Such  are  the  ties  of  sympathy 
which  bind  us  to  each  other,  independent  of  the  adven- 
titious circumstances  of  wealth  and  station,  and  make  us 
feel  that  we  all  belong  to  one  universal  family. 


RETALIATION.  848 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

The  dinner  was  scarcely  removed,  when  a  servant  came 
into  the  dining-room  and  said  Tommy  wished  to  see  Miss 
Ahce. 

"  Show  him  in,"  said  Mrs.  Grey,  as  AUce  hesitated 
what  reply  to  make. 

"  Is  he  sober  ?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"  Yes  sir,  quite,"  replied  the  man. 

"  How  could  you  ask  such  a  question,  my  dear  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Grey,  as  the  man  went  to  obey  her  order.  "  Poor 
Tommy  would  be  exceedingly  hurt  if  he  had  heard  it." 

The  husband's  reply  was  prevented  by  Tommy's  en- 
tering with  Bully  in  his  hand. 

"  Here  he  is,  ma'am,"  said  he,  as  he  held  the  bird 
towards  Alice.  "  I  was  afraid  he  was  fairly  gone,  and  I 
really  believe  he  would  have  been,  if  I  hadn't  had  Brandy 
with  me." 

"Had  what?"  asked  the  Doctor,  with  a  look  of  dis- 
pleasure, for  he  thought  Tommy  was  making  use  of  some 
cunning,  by  way  of  excuse,  for  having  provided  himself 
with  '  the  liquor  that  he  loved.' 

"Brandy,  sir,"  replied  Tommy;  "you  never  saw  any 
thing  like  it  in  your  life,  sir,  for  catching  birds." 

"  Pooh  !  nonsense,  Tommy,"  replied  the  reverend  gen- 
tleman, impatiently ;  "  you  must  not  think  to  palm  such 
folly  on  me.  I  wish  it  had  never  caught  any  more  men 
than  it  has  birds." 

"  Oh,  men,  your  honour,  it  would  do  for  the  men 
pretty  quickly,  if  they  happened  to  make  too  free." 

"  If  you  are  of  that  opinion,  Tommy,  how  does  it  hap 
pen  that  you  persevere  in  making  so  free  yourself?" 


244  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

"  Me  !  your  honour  ?  Lord  love  your  honour  !  It 
"wouldn't  harm  me  however  free  I  was  to  make," 

"  I  was  in  hopes  you  had  learnt  to  the  contrary  by 
this  time,  Tommy,  and  had  determined  to  forsake  it/' 

"  Forsake  it,  your  honour  !"  exclaimed  Tommy,  in  ex- 
treme astonishment.  "  Forsake  Brandy  !  I  would  n't  do 
it,  your  honour,  if  even  your  honour  was  to  order  me." 
And  as  he  spoke  he  cast  his  eyes,  with  a  look  of  great 
tenderness,  on  a  dog  which  had  accompanied  him  into 
the  room,  and  laid  itself  down  at  his  feet. 

"  Papa,"  said  Alice,  and  her  countenance  brightened, 
almost,  with  one  of  her  wonted  smiles,  "  I  believe  you 
and  Tommy  are  playing  at  cross  purposes.  Tommy," 
she  added,  pointing  to  the  animal  at  his  feet,  "  was  it 
this  dog  that  caught  Bully  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  it  was,  ma'am ;  what  other  dog  could 
have  laid  hold  of  a  little  bird  like  that,  and  held  it  fast, 
without  hurting  a  hair  of  its  head,  or  a  feather  of  its 
body,  as  I  should  more  properly  have  said  ?" 

"  And  is  your  dog's  name  Brandy  ?"  asked  the  Doctor. 

"  Yes  sir — that 's  Brandy  that  you  would  have  me  for- 
sake. Oh,  sir,  if  you  knew  what  a  dog  he  is,  you  would 
never  expect  it  of  me." 

"  I  must  really  ask  your  pardon.  Tommy,  for  the  sus- 
picions I  have  had  of  you  ;  but  when  your  landlady  told 
me  that  you  had  taken  Brandy  with  you,  I  thought  to 
be  sure  you  were  falling  into  your  old  practices." 

"  Ah  !  your  honour,  you  knew  very  little  of  me  when 
you  thought  that,"  said  Tommy,  in  a  tone  of  deep  feel- 
ing. "  I  once  committed  a  sin  for  the  sake  of  drink,  that 
has  lain  heavy  at  my  heart  ever  since.  It  troubled  my 
mind  so  that  it  cured  me  of  all  wish  to  drink  from  that 
time.  I  have  often  thought  of  consulting  you,  sir,  on  the 
subject,  and  now  that  we  have  touched  upon  it,  I  will 
ease  my  mind.  A  few  weeks  back,  as  I  have  told  you 
before,  I  was  employed  by  Mr.  Pole,  about  his  stables, 


KETALIATION.  245 

and  one  day  he  came  to  me  and  told  me  that  a  gentle- 
man had  played  him  a  trick,  and  he  wanted  to  play  the 
gentleman  one  in  return,  by  getting  him  intoxicated  at  a 
dinner  party  that  he  was  going  to  have  the  next  day ; 
but  as  he  was  sure  it  would  be  impossible  to  prevail 
upon  him  to  drink  more  than  would  do  him  good,  of  his 
own  accord,  he  wanted  to  cheat  him  into  it,  and  proposed 
to  have  me  dressed  up  to  wait  at  the  dinner ;  and  as  I 
was  well  acquainted  with  the  young  gentleman,  I  was  to 
make  it  my  particular  business  to  wait  on  him ;  and  he, 
Mr.  Pole  that  is  to  say,  promised  to  give  me  twenty 
sovereigns  if  I  managed  to  put  something  that  he  would 
give  me  into  his  first  drink,  without  being  suspected. 
He  engaged  that  it  should  not  be  any  thing  that  would 
do  him  any  harm,  further  than  to  put  him  off  all  com- 
mand of  himself,  and  in  short  make  him  drunk.  I  did  n't 
then  think  so  seriously  of  a  man  getting  drunk  as  I  do 
now,  so  I  promised  to  do  it,  and  succeeded,  when  the 
gentleman  asked  me  to  give  him  a  glass  of  porter,  as  his 
custom  was,  when  he  finished  his  dinner.  I  got  my 
money,  but " 

"And  who  was  the  gentleman?"  cried  Alice,  in  an 
agony  of  impatience  that  cannot  be  described.  "  Speak  ! 
Tommy,  speak  instantly  !     Who  was  the  gentleman  ?" 

"It  was  young  Mr.  Dudley,  ma'am — him  that  learnt 

my  poor  Bully  to  sing  so  prettily,  and "  but  here 

Tommy  was  again  interrupted,  for  Alice  had  fallen  off 
her  chair  in  a  state  of  insensibility.  She  was  scarcely 
however  extended  on  her  couch  before  she  revived,  and 
looking  at  her  mother  with  all  the  tenderness  of  her  heart 
swimming  in  her  eyes, 

"  I  have  often  heard  of  people  dying  of  grief,"  said 
she,  "  but  I  really  believe  an  excess  of  joy  is,  for  the  first 
few  moments,  harder  to  bear.  But  where  is  papa  ?  I 
must  speak  to  him.  My  dearest  father,"  she  continued, 
as  her  parent  at  the  moment  entered,  "let  me  follow 

21  * 


246  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

Dudley  to  Lima.  Let  me  go  to  him  as  soon  as  possible, 
for  my  heart  would  break  if  I  thought  he  suffered  the 
miseries  of  a  condemned  culprit  a  day  longer  than  I  could 
help." 

"  Compose  yourself,  my  child,"  returned  her  father 
tenderly,  '  and  be  assured  that  every  thing  shall  be  done 
to  shorten  the  period  of  Temple's  sufferings  as  speedily 
as  possible.  I  will  go,  however,  in  the  first  instance,  to 
Mr.  Pole,  and  see  how  far  he  confirms  the  truth  of  Tom- 
my's tale." 

"  But,  papa,"  remonstrated  Alice,  "  he  will  deny  it,  for 
he  of  course  will  be  ashamed  of  the  act,  and  then  you 
will  conclude  that  Tommy's  tale  is  false." 

"  He  will  not  deny  it,  my  love,  if  the  thing  be  as 
Tommy  says.  There  is  a  code  of  morals  amongst  these 
people,  which,  though  it  differs  essentially  from  ours, 
which  is  '  to  do  to  others  as  you  would  be  done  by,'  still 
holds  them  by  a  species  of  false  honour ;  so  that,  though 
they  do  not  care  for  blowing  out  a  man's  brains,  or  what 
is  often  more  cruel  still,  destroying  his  character  and  re- 
spectability, by  what  they  would  term  a  joke,  they  would 
not  condescend  to  tell  a  falsehood.  Compose  yourself, 
therefore,  my  beloved  child,  and  depend  upon  it,  neither 
expense  nor  trouble  shall  be  spared  to  restore  our  injured 
Dudley  to  his  friends  and  you."  So  saying,  the  affec- 
tionate father  kissed  the  fair  forehead  of  his  lovely 
daughter,  and  again  urged  her  to  compose  herself.  At 
the  same  moment  that  he  did  so,  the  bullfinch,  which  at 
Tommy's  request  had  been  hung  up  in  her  little  palace, 
began  to  whistle  the  air  that  Dudley  had  taught  it. 

"  Hark !"  said  her  father,  with  a  smile,  "  Temple  him- 
self is  saying,  '  Sleep  !  dearest,  sleep  !'  and  you  cannot 
show  your  affection  for  him  better  than  by  taking  care 
of  yourself,  that  you  may  be  able  to  welcome  him  on 
his  return." 

Alice  submitted,  and  as  the  sweet  bird  continued  to 


RETALIATION.  247 

whistle,  as  if  conscious  of  the  soothing  effect  of  its  music, 
Ahce  gracUially  became  more  cahu,  nor  was  her  tranquil- 
ity much  disturbed  by  hearing  that  tliis  little  musician 
was  now  her  own — Tommy's  motive  for  bringing  it  hav- 
ing been  to  present  it  to  her,  and  that  it  was  his  inten- 
tion to  do  so  that  had  made  him  decline  selling  it  to  her 
father.  Alice  accepted  the  bird  with  pleasure,  and  deter- 
mined that  Tommy  should  not  be  a  loser  by  the  gift. 


CHAPTER  IX 

"I  ACKNOWLEDGE  the  fact  Doctor,"  said  Pole,  after  the  rec- 
tor had  explained  his  errand ;  I  owed  Dudley  a  debt  for 
the  trick  he  played  me  at  your  house,  and  took  that  way  of 
revenging  myself." 

"  The  trick  that  was  played  upon  you,  at  my  house,  was 
satisfactorily  explained  Mr.  Pole,  as  you  acknowledged  at 
the  time  yourself." 

"  It  was  explained,  but  I  cannot  acquiesce  in  its  being 
satisfactorily  so :  I  always  believed  him  to  be  the  guilty 
person,  and  think  my  retaliation  was  a  very  moderate 
one." 

"  It  is  one  by  which  you  have  gone  far  towards  destroy- 
ing two  virtuous  young  people.  Indeed  even  now  it  is 
impossible  to  say  how  far  the  evil  may  extend." 

"  It  is  to  be  hoped  it  will  teach  him  better  manners  in 
future." 

"  You  seem  to  forget  Mr.  Pole,  that  by  persevering  in 
charging  Dudley  with  the  offence,  you  implicate  both  Miss 
Grafton  and  me  in  the  falsehood." 

"As  to  Miss  Grafton.  I  know  her,  and  can  easily  believe 
her  to  be  so  accommodating,  as  to  take  the  credit  of  the 
thing  upon  herself.     But  as  for  you,  Doctor,  I  have  not  the 


248  THE      FOUNTAIN. 

slightest  doubt  of  your  believing  all  that  Dudley  said.  I 
am  exceedingly  sorry  your  lovely  daughter  has  been  a  suffer- 
er, but  yet  I  cannot  regret  what  has  been  done." 

"  As  it  seems  impossible  to  convince  you  sir  of  your  mis- 
take, I  will  wish  you  a  good  morning,"  said  the  rector,  as 
he  took  his  leave.  On  his  arriving  at  home,  he  was  met  in 
the  lobby  by  Alice,  in  a  state  of  excitement  even  greater 
than  that,  in  which  he  had  left  her ;  and  holding  out  a 
newspaper,  she  exclaimed,  "  see !  see !  papa,  what  news 
this  evening's  paper  has  brought!"  Her  father  took  the 
paper,  and  read  the  following  paragraph. 

"  Letters  have  been  received  to  day  from  Spain,  in  which 
it  is  stated  that  the  Britannia,  which  sailed  from  this  port, 
on  the  third  of  last  month,  after  tossing  about  the  ocean,  for 
many  weeks,  under  the  most  violent  stress  of  weather,  was 
at  last  obliged  to  put  into  Corunna  for  repairs ;  and  it  is  not 
thought  she  will  be  ready  to  pursue  her  voyage,  in  less  than 
two  or  three  weeks.  We  are  happy  to  say  that  though 
much  damage  was  done  to  the  vessel,  there  were  no  lives 
lost."  "  Now  papa,"  cried  Alice,  her  eyes  dancing  with 
delight,  "  acknowledge  that  this  is  the  most  fortunate  ship- 
wreck that  ever  took  place."  "  I  must  go  and  show  this 
paragraph  to  old  Mr.  Dudley  immediately."  said  the 
rector. 

"  It  was  he  who  brought  it  here  papa,"  returned  Alice, 
"  and  he  is  now  gone  in  search  of  some  fit  person  to  send 
off  to  his  son." 

A  messenger  was  soon  found  and  despatched  ;  and  the 
time  that  intervened,  gave  Alice  leisure  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  her  unexpected  happiness,  and  although 
sudden  happiness  is  perhaps  more  difficult  to  bear  at  first, 
than  unexpected  sorrow,  its  effects  are  much  more  easily 
subdued.  Before  her  lover's  arrival,  she  had  begun  both  to 
eat  and  sleep  ;  and  was  one  morning,  just  as  the  day  had 
begun  to  dawn,  enjoying  a  gentle  slumber,  when  the  well 
known  tones  of  a  guitar  struck  her  ear,  and  starting,  and 


KETALIATION.  249 

raising  herself  up  in  bed,  she  heard  the  following  stanzas 
sung  in  a  gay  though  tender  strain. 

"  Oh !  ope  thine  eyes,  my  lov'd,  my  dearest, 

Oh  !  wake,  and  thy  fond  lover  see ; 
For,  trust  me  sweet,  'till  thou  appearest, 

Return  can  give  no  joy  to  me. 

"  Oh !  wake  and  say  that  wavering  never, 
Thy  heart  has  still  been  kind  and  true ; 

That  thou  art  mine — and  thus  forever. 
We'll  every  vow  of  faith  renew. 

"And  thus  our  hopes  and  wishes  blending, 
Each  passing  year  new  joy  shall  give ; 

And  with  our  hearts  to  Heaven  ascending. 
Blest  and  blessing  we  will  live. 

"  Then  ope  thine  eyes,  my  lov'd,  my  dearest. 

Oh !  wake  and  thy  fond  lover  see  ; 
For  trust  me  sweet,  'till  thou  appearest. 

Return  can  give  no  joy  to  me." 

"  He  is  come,  he  is  come,"  cried  the  delighted  girl,  and 
jumping  out  of  bed,  she  dressed  with  an  expedition  that 
few  maidens  could  rival ;  and  flew  down  stairs.  What  pen 
would  have  the  presumption  to  attempt  to  paint  the  meet- 
ing.  


A  HYMN  OF  TIME. 

HOW  THE  PILGRIM  SANG  TO  CHEER  HIS  WAY. 


BY    THOMAS   G.    SPEAR. 


Be  not  weary,  gentle  spirit ! 

Sink  not  sorrowing  by  the  way; — 
Light  there  is  ahead,  draw  near  it — 

Glory,  rise  to  share  its  ray ; 
And,  with  scenes  sublime  in  view, 
Plume  thy  wings  to  soar  anew. 

Wherefore  droops  thy  glittering  pinion. 
Wherefore  sigh'st  thou  in  distress, 

When  God's  smile  is  thy  dominion. 
Beautiful  and  shadowless  ? 

Stir  thee  !  stir  thee  !  wake  !  arise  ! 

Seek  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

While  his  staff  the  traveller  handles, 

In  his  weary  journeying. 
Thorns  may  tear  his  dusty  sandals. 

Fangs  his  tender  feet  may  sting  ; 
But  were  life  devoid  of  pain. 
Bliss  were  proffer'd  man  in  vain. 

250 


A    HYMN     OF     TIME.  251 

Look  aloft,  where  light  is  breaking 
Through  this  doubt-envelop'd  sky — 

Forward  leap,  the  joy  partaking 
Of  a  higher  destiny. 

Lift  thy  staff  and  move  apace, 

In  the  pilgrim-thronging  race. 

Faltering  oft-timeSj  yet  ascending, 

Till  beyond  the  world's  dismay, 
Thither  many  a  wanderer  wending 

Ere  thee,  sped  the  self-same  way — 
Hoping  through  the  darkest  night, 
Happy  when  the  dawn  was  bright. 

"  Upward  !  onward  !"  cry  their  legions, 

Onward  to  the  heavenly  goal ! 
Bliss  awaits,  in  brighter  regions, 

Every  pure  and  steadfast  soul ; 
And  a  glory  shines  abroad, 
From  the  dwelling-place  of  God. 

O'er  life's  yielding  sand  and  gravel, 

'Midst  its  trials  and  delights, 
See,  along  yon  paths  of  travel. 

What  glad  mottoes  skirt  the  heights — 
Thence  proclaiming,  far  and  wide, 
How  they  triumph'd  who  have  tried. 

Be  their  lessons  thine,  when  shaken 

With  despondency  and  pain — 
Heed  their  cheerings,  and  awaken 

To  renew  the  march  again. 
Raise,  my  soul !  thy  drooping  wing  ! 
Pilgrim !  lift  thy  voice  and  sing  ! 


252  THE     FOUNTAIN. 

Life  is  not  enacted  dreaming 

Drowsily",  or  looking  on — 
Then,  to  glory's  beacons  gleaming, 

Rouse  thee  !  rouse  thee  !  and  begone  ! 
There   is  bliss  for  those  that  strive, 
Happiness  for  all  alive  ! 

Though  we  meet  but  death  around  us, 

Ashes  in  its  best  array. 
Yet  let  not  despair  confound  us — 

Things  there  are  beyond  decay : 
These  the  soul  to  gain  must  try. 
Ere  its  vesture  is  laid  by. 

Then  bestir  thee  !     Life  is  action- 
Hope  a  guide  to  lure  it  on — 

Duty  is  the  high  exaction 

God  has  fix'd  our  fates  upon ; 

And  despair  not,  soul  of  mine  ! 

There  are  promises  divine. 

Ever  hoping — ever  soaring 

Like  the  eagle  to  the  sun, 
Onward  speed,  with  thoughts  adoring, 

Till  the  better  land  is  won — 
Till  thy  pilgrimage  is  o'er. 
And  new  worlds  expand  before. 


THE   END 


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